Blight
Beneath blossoming, neat rows
Spring thoughtfully seeds
Once inchoate, now transformed
Were they visible, naked.
Coaxed or neglected
Into more important things --
Their outgrowth substantial
And beating, alive.
A pounding or downpour,
The influence prized
Insomuch as it aided
Propagation. Spread.
The seeds, so once tiny,
Their outgrowths majestic.
A flowering of ideas
Sprout from little, buried thoughts.
You get on your knees
To try getting at them.
You think that their sources
Matter most, hold the souls?
And as you dig deeper
You murder my flora
And leave me a bed
Of deadness and dirt.
You're killing my garden!
Yet a death temporary:
There are plenty of seed packs
For purchase and taking.
I witness their death
Until nothing's left dying.
You expire malnourished --
Then shall I begin.
Copyright © Irene Hammer | Year Posted 2009
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