and everything we’ve been waiting for opens.
The iris wave their flags, every shade of the rainbow,
and the peonies have unclenched their fists: pompoms
of snowdrift, cherry, carmine; almost too much
to bear.  Because the rest of the news is bleak: 
arctic ice melting, CO2 at an all-time high,
the Middle East’s a mess, and here, where we’ve
got it all, the Great Divide widens.  Somewhere,
there’s a nasty little virus about to go airborne. . . .
 
But it’s May in the garden, and we’re restored
to Eden.  The evening primroses unfold
their four-petaled skirts, ruffled flounces around
the edge of the bed, and the lupines’ spires
sway in the breeze.  An Oriental poppy is about
to stamp its orange exclamation mark.  And 
when they’re done, roses and lilies, then pink
coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, Russian sage.  
Why aren’t we on our knees? Why aren’t we
picketing with placards and day lilies, demanding 
an end to GMOs, a reduction in carbon emissions 
and the use of fossil fuels?  
 
So simple: subsidize sun and wind, not oil and corn.  
Is it impossible to plant change?  What are we here for, 
if not inflorescence?  Let’s praise everything, even chiggers,
ticks, and stinkbugs.  Let’s sink our feet in the grass, 
and bend in the wind.