Na/GloPoWriMo #24: Perishable
by Michael Doyle

Perishable as a live plant
She insists but just can't
There a perfect consolation in leaf
Its in its hiding manifestations of grief

In the soft shame of being seen
Each of us fails our push at being human beings
Potted plants have a form of poetry
Stretching and curling at their mystery

In this year of humbled isolation
We are rooted in damnable domination
In these times of helpless loss
The watering of our plants becomes a cross

All of this pushes forward for the sake of man
As each of us does what it is that we can
It's the fickleness of a frail ecology
That somehow always manages to call to me

Earth's future and our own is already here
Is it little wonder that we plant in our fear
In our plants we find the end of nature's observation
Tending as we can and dishonestly calling it conservation

(c) April 24, 2021  Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved