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.