Silken snapdragons, swaying on stalk tower,
open their mouths. The tiny roars of colour
— sherbet, red velvet, purple wine — bees waltz
in haloes around them, sever the thread from earth
& float float to high heaven, leaven the bread of
story & song — we are coming out of winter now.
I sit on the steps, chewing fat, smoking time, watching
flowers push up, between empty bottles, chip packets &
coiled curses — struggling, finding a way, like ideas do, like we do.
I forgot I’d even planted them, in an hour of loss,
in a moment of need, in long, dark months when my
brain was jewelled in crystals & frost.
yes, I’d scattered the seed.