A wheelbarrow rotted through Winter,
now filled with soil and sun,
will soon be bearing blossoms—
daisies, blue bonnets and snapdragons—
a novel, transient world of petals—blushing,
bruised, morose or vivacious—
comrades in arms gathered in bouquets,
dripping in buckets, shrieks of daffodils!
O…how Man lusts for flowers!
The watchman unlocks the padlock
and loosens the gnarled chain—
children come in clusters,
empty buckets in hand;
they push in like sheep rushing
out of the barn, hurrying past
with shrieks of joy, eyes twitching
from sudden light pouring over.
How lovable, these children—
bouquets of balloons,
little fat feet all alike,
toes imprinting wet sand.
They tinkle like kittens,
with small, ineffective teeth that
revel over fruits in open-markets
with the same awe we have for newborns—
perfect, inimitable, yet already bruised—
fresh yet showing spots
and stains that precede rot.
Sap climbs trees to tell all leaves
what was heard by roots beneath the ground.
Leaves then tell it to the winds;
Winds tell it to free men
who live like chimes hung over fire.
Tales from under the earth and of the dead
spread all over.