like sickly pallid flowers,
whose blossoms no one will ever will ever notice,
whose colors wax riotous even as our season wanes.
Sprouts clustered in thick patches,
each crowding the other;
determined roots strangling beneath the surface.
The butterfly's visit less frequent;
the bee, too, rarely seen.
Our stems bend beneath the weight of pollen
unscattered,
washed into the ground in the cool morning rains.
