Flowers

Flowers by Lise Day

Wracked, furrowed
cut by ploughshare
shovelled, turned, carved,
flattened earth, trodden
under foot, oxcart, hoof,
tyre, wheel track.

In deep down crannies
seeds, corms find refuge
till, leaping into spring
they brush fields and paths
exuberant splashes of magenta, gold
sprouting wondrous heads
lifting faces to the sun.

My ground disturbed
I sense the pushing stem
impatient for the light.

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