after my haiku "for those late to blooming,"

the gardener's gloved hands move slowly when

he packs a new plant into place. it's

a white and indigo columbine this time, petals all

fanned out like a threatened cobra. over

time the stem will droop, and the color will blacken, and we'll

know it's time to discover

the next specimen that

will take its place. flowers

have always been fickle things, despite the fact that there are

always small, compact mounds of soil carefully crafted

to hug their tiny, delicate roots which can gain nutrition from

anything, from tipping buckets to thunderstorms out of zeus' myth

(original:

when it's all over

we'll discover that flowers

were crafted from myth)