The season is ripe and the seeds take 

root in the caverns of my eyes

spindling roots with secret urgency,

tying knots from hidden capillaries. 

Soon,

in a gesture of begging,

these still-green buds will spring for sun,

burst through skull 

and I will scream.

Each season, 

I chew and spit the clumps of dirt 

towards a ruthless summer sky.

Each season, I tear the roses free 

cut myself on bladed leaves the 

petals puddling at my feet the season 

is ripe. 

The air is sickly sweet. 

I don’t know what to do. 

Please. 

This hibiscus, this jungle flame,

This cactus tower in my throat, this mountain sage 

all searching in their violent quest for light. 

Let me put away my tired scythe

and let the marigolds bloom 

softly 

down my back