I lift boxes of showy pansies proud of their lipstick
eyebrow blues
moments of mascara.
marigold breaking air with orange
tuberous bgonias
sweetpea fingers and ferns
that peek through shadows

my stride jars the quickening of dessication
in my swallow
saliva, allowing me to taste
the terrible slow death of plants this summer.

how will it happen?
Hail. Extreme cold. No.
Drought.
swallowing, I feel the liquid clue disappear
the presence of what would be
absent.
waiting then, for the slow death of green
leaving the boxes of plants behind at the greenhouse
deciding not to pay
for these,
things that would only die.

Vivian Hansen
Copyright � 2003