although the nearest neighbours
are a mile away, I tell myself
these silent occupations
are designed to not wake them.
What is there to do at 5 am?

I scan the room, decide to proceed
with a needed floral funeral
to remove the now-colourless
and wizened jonquils that once
were inserted precisely
to add colour to philodendron cuttings
set in water to grow roots.

The viscous brown stems
now in the shadow of a cannister
are living worms, seemingly mobile,
soft and ready to wiggle
on the kitchen counter.

I shudder at the ghoulishness
of an autopsy turned vivisection
but manage to distract myself
with the amusing paradox
that plants must be sunk in the ground –
buried – that they may live.

c.m.anderson
http://allpoetry-classic.com/catimini