As Eliot would say,
I buried the corpses dutifully
In the garden last autumn
With hopes of ghostly greetings to come.
Now, feeding them with
Spikes and multicolored fluids,
I wonder how they will arise,
Whether they will rise.
A regeneration, perhaps,
Or a redemption for
Last year’s cataclysm
Of paradoxical fecundity.
How does the overgrowth
Thrive so heartily
When I’ve launched such
Devious plots against it?
How does the life
I’ve coaxed so tenaciously
Defy me with such a persistent
Affront to my unfounded optimism?
Wonderful – I hope your snowdrops emerge triumphant this year 🙂
Sometimes they do without my input. 😏