...oh dear, that ditty 'lonely little petunia in an onion patch' has started running thru my mind. 'But seriously, folks. . .'
;)

      . . .7. . .8. . .9. . .UP Before the Bell!

A single blade of grass, crushed and bleeding,
shivers and pokes it head through muck.   Single
tap by a lone hailstone pummeled it to the mat
for rain to pound.   Blades on every side
fell and sank or washed away.  Widespread
drownings and death by lightning:  CNN.

Sun finally wins over clouds, starts to melt
stones and dry-clean swamps.  Blade hears a rip
as it twists all the way free,  but gasps a breath.
Feeling comes back.   Pain is a wild boar
readying foot-long teeth.  Somehow the blade
pulls up and takes stock.  Am I all right?
goes the drill.  How can I go on with so many lost?
Why did the storm choose to maim them?
Best troops died.   Here I am, this sick shade
of green.  Puke with hair.   Looked scrawny before
it thundered.   Crooked as a stomped petunia.
Most who died were tall and strong.  Good-
looking, did their job.  Packed on the chlorophyll.  
Tell me it makes sense.  Sun’s warm, though.
Warmer every day.   Rain has learned to
chill a little.  Smells like the first dew of April.
Honeysuckle, fresh ground.  Who would have thought 
I’d fill out?    Believe I am sprouting buds
might just turn into robin’s-egg flowers.   Oh,
they will be small.  They will be shy.  Sun is going
to dim as winter winds down-river.   Leaves
will land on dirt hard as rock.   Each other.
Most are bound to smother.   Most are bound
to crack beneath wheels and feet.  Surrendering,
every single blade will add to a boring brown mat. 
Mat will grow stout, then thin and disappear. 
But now it is summer.   Grasses have a duty
to provide cushions.   Beautify and shelter
those who must stay undercover.   Better
make food and distribute it fast.   Clouds are
dressing in the dark.  Gird yourself for hail.


(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  May, 2005