flower spies me through its periscope after
bumblebee abandons.
i lay upon the grass mattress
                smell
the diatomaceous earth being
tilled beneath by worms in cordial, unfazed shifts.

didn't I place that greenery there? predetermined what its
width and breadth would be in accordance with
the grave I dug for roots to go in,

imagined i could control the seasons, boasted
special fertilizer and city water would subjugate
the plant from dying,
              then
took for granted that it would
             thrive
with absolutely no attention
just the same as I do.


Sara Fielder © June 2022