My fascination with plants goes back to days
when I wondered where we all came from.
When I watered fruit trees and rose bushes
I made no distinction between their existence
yours or mine, deeming all objects measures
of sublimity, subordination or death on arrival.
And I mused about this magnetism people had
for life on a sphere spinning toward oblivion.

In those days I lacked sufficient force
as if I needed a bullhorn to be heard
above the big crowds of protestors
vilifying war and social injustice.

And then I disintegrated in a bitty microwave
slightly above gravity’s undertow
where trolls multiply amid snow drifts
and werewolves howl to an azure moon
                   convincing myself

I could do much better
would save the guts for when glory
reveals itself in the buff
until then call any bluffs resist
bellicose demands of the bourgeoisie.