In our corner
most of the plants sleep
all winter.
Science says this
is because
earth tips away for a while
before angling back toward the sun.
This is a likely story,
one I believe, though
I have as much proof
of tip
as proof that Jesus rose
to bloom again.
Proof is word-of-mouth.
We are lush,
decorated everywhere
by ordinary blossom and leaf.
Great bodies of water mitigate change,
it is neither too hot
nor cold,
neither too wet
nor dry.
Unsatisfied,
into this Eden we bring exotic things,
all colours different,
that sleep not but die and are thrown away
when fickle earth
tips its hat.
We think we can afford this, it’s the right thing to do.
Today I saw
four thin shadow flowers,
drab petal covered, head to foot,
their hearts hollowed out.
Life has been merciless to them.
They are far from where they grew,
shuffling,
conspicuous in this place
that plucked them
toward a promised safety that exists
only by word-of-mouth.
Now,
the very land is tipping.
They are not prepared.
