Soft, the snow of blossoms
Petaling the walkway,
The wake of a wedding train
Purling the soldier course,
Color, forsythian fireworks,
Redbuds frothy, raspberry frappe
Bronchioles of lilac
Sighing scent
Dogwood baby’s breath
In the foreground afterthought
And there, bifurcated gardeners,
Cattle tearing the soil
In great calamitous chunks,
Dirt-eaters, stone-lickers,
Rooting their skulls against
The raw ground
Until their faces grow masked
With slick clay,
Bacchanal, fierce, eruptive,
Pawing pasture to pieces
Scraped skyward only to fall
On spines, scapulae,
Raising their tails,
Jetting fecund streams of
Feces, flung far,
As far as far,
Splattering and splashing
Leaves and grass,
Ignoring the flowers
And gorging instead
On violets, dandelions,
Garlic mustard with
Phosphorescent blossoms,
Lessons their mothers taught
Them long ago about,
What, precisely, was what.
Leave a Reply