where the writers are


How... in the dark of the ungreen womb

How do the flowers reblosoom

At the snip of the gardening plier

At the smothering of life.

At the crash of broken petals

On the stolid ground of reality

How can they know again the

Warmth of the receptacle

How can they bounce back

How do the few that do

Do they really?

Is it some visual effect of some science fiction?

Or is it some legend they say of-

Some tragi-comic myth off the lips

Of some charlatan sage?                         

How does time get to feel

How does one love...and love again

How...in the dark of the ungreen womb.

How do the flowers reblosoom.