Dave Bonta's poem is a small act of attention paid to a plant most people walk past. The speaker starts by explaining why dwarf ginseng gets ignored: its root is tiny, so it has no great market value, even though it is still prized as medicine. If the root looked like a human body, the speaker imagines, we might cry out its name the way ginseng diggers call "'sang!" Instead we step over it without a glance.
The poem then turns to what we miss. The plant's odd biology, in which clusters of flowers may be all male or hermaphroditic, and in which the plant can return the next spring as a different sex, is presented with wonder rather than dry science. The speaker doesn't claim to have answers, only questions: how, and why. The mood is quiet, curious, and affectionate. The closing words, "dwarf, / mountain-dweller, / unmaker of aches," read almost like a tribute, praising the plant's modest size and its healing power together.