Believe Them

In the sprawling purgatory
of the floral soul –
in which the flowering plant
feels swallowed whole

throughout the endless-seeming
tenure of the winter –
vegetative nerves
begin to splinter.

Cold buried bulbs,
dry packs of seeds –
hidden sullen hibernating
roots of weeds –

these mute invisible
prospects of bloom
get ornery
in their ungenerative gloom.

If something doesn’t
very soon effect their resurrection,
expect
an insurrection.

And, believe them:
in the country or the city –
it won’t be
pretty.





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