Dale Champlin, Hand with Butterfly, Collage, 2021
Anemophilous
I spread my hands open to the wind and flowers appear, fingers turn to petals
stamins dripping pollen sprout from palms. I will my toes
to stretch to roots and find their way into the earth, push past layers
of broken concrete and half-decayed cedar chips, find their way down
to the underground trickles filling the tunnels left by earthworms
deep beneath the ground. This is where I will stay
leaves brachiating like millipedes, death-scented flowers
tumbling from my skin, vines spreading outward from a central stalk
determined to reach your home, only just contained by your constant lawn mowing
and experiments with pesticides and fertilizer.
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Holly Day