Early purple
blooms of cosmea,
in the sparse grasses,
in the granulated earth,
pierced and punctured,
between two roses struggling:
their roots tangle,
squeezing each other
until one submits
and sumptuous oils
catch and then release
their differences.
Glazed with spice
and salt, the roots
dig deep into the secrets,
lessons learned
from The Day After,
scavenging for sustenance,
and from the love bombs,
roses enweaved
with yellow buds,
all racing to be first
to reach the surface,
by thrusting upwards
through the clouds,
growing faster
to taste the cold
water of victory.
Late harvest this winter:
olive tears, dropping branches
trimmed from existence,
pitched into the graves
of the giant groves,
sinking deep and covered
by the smell of sweet
jasmine blooming,
their tangled,
intertwined vines
now all growth
to dust and dying,
from those that
grew before them.
