Crocus at the Edge of Time

Rising orb lights
the world with indifference,
raises muttering voices
lights the assembly line
lights storm trooper boots
that stand along hardtop
paths where people shuffle
this direction, that direction-
wherever the boots point them.

Frogs call to one another in
the pond by forest, fireflies
rise and dance erratically in air
while crocuses at the edge of
time bloom after raising faces
to capture warm light then
quickly bow heads once again
shrinking into themselves as
the rhythmic pounding boots
announce their arrival.

I would rather be a crocus
at the edge of time, face
briefly lit than on an
assembly line herded by
boots or be the boots that
never feel warmth or know
the joy of spreading petals.



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