I view you with scorn.
Pitiful, I label. Naive beyond belief.
Do you not feel it in your bones,
this Frost creeping, cadaverous
mongrel, seeking your flesh?
No one who knows what
Saskatchewan winter can accomplish
would proffer innocent bud,
sacrificial lamb to ego’s altar.
Or do you know exactly what you offer?
Scorn spars with Pity,
until a third enters the ring –
Do you bloom in spite, or to spite?
Death may just be the mother of
all necessary re-invention,
the Holy Grail to this Holocaust.
Tears trace my ruptures,
draining immature ideas,
congregating on your petals
where they christen you