Does soil hurt
when the tulip pushes through?
You think it a silly question, I know.
You say the soil isn’t human with feelings
or animal with instinct. Is more like a table
that can’t answer when someone knocks
for good luck, laugh when someone pulls
its leg, or scream when someone’s knife
digs in. Is oblivious.
But I see a sharp tip as the bud pierces
the sepia skin like a thick needle, then red
like blood hitting the air. And it inhales
like a babe who sucks in first breath,
tight-fisted, rooting for the milk of mother
earth, the throbbing womb it’s just split
open. You know full well life can’t come forth
without pain.
Inspiration
Head resting on the window sill,
my Lab sits, sniffing the cool autumn air
like new grass in spring,
watching, perhaps, the mist
as it gathers around the ankles
of trees, then floats across the lawn
like words across a page, wrapping
around itself as breezes move
its margins,
breath of morning flowing
like inspiration, drifting
through the open window…