By Jillian Horton
I’m so grateful you’ve come to join me,
In this land of
dirtmuddust, Texas weather and tea.
I’m glad you’re striped and stick out.
You’re not supposed to be able to thrive here
And stand tall on your own—
But you’re blooming in the backyard, with massive puddles of rain from Washington
And apples from New Zealand tearing up the rotting fence planks
And old letters burning with the crumpled autumnal leaves in the farest back left corner,
Near the long forgotten work bench my mother used to use.
Copper rays gleam down on your picturesque stems, highlighting what surely must be a fault
For Tulips were never made to stand tall.
You sway in the wind and topple when too close to the ground,
Pretending to be vertical when 90o is far too tedious to obtain
And other flowers would prefer to talk mulch than be such pretentious little pretenders.
But there’s still space by the avocado garden hose and pale buckets of blue
Where unoccupied patches of infertility remain unconquered
And I have
no doubt, that it’ll be gone
By Tuesday evening next week,
When the Roses learn to shut their mouths and
The rest of your Liliaceae friends can move on to such plenteous land.
I look forward to your continued growth and strength,
Much love, from far far away,
A Breaker Virus Girl, sitting by her window pane.