Weeds
if you hug a flower
and get cornered by the petals,
some of them will speak of heaven,
others of absurd ruckus,
or even a lawnmower's blade.
the various florets
flirt with primeval mandalas:
archeo-operas whose pollinic dramas
prop the world with their sexual feats.
deeper still,
the spores unveil savvy moods,
seductive in their trans-kingdom relations.
secret eggs of never-seen insects
mutter sub rosa, cloistered by december.
the protocols jump about, trangress, activate!
they haggle with beehives,
banter under parleys of knotholes,
all of it so agog,
colors stalking and rooting hither and thither,
while birth and death just complain.
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