Mum’s
crocuses
She’s planting
fifteen years this spring
our sort of
fate in a fairy ring
crocuses,
and snowdrops’ jizz
then later
foxgloves touch the dirt.
Bluebells blinking
in the shade
observe the
ladies walk to church
for this year’s
spate of funerals.
And even now
she plants us all
three pots
of bulbs
in the
loosebox til the spring
purple clits
in a purity ring
No comments:
Post a Comment