White fleshed, the wild roots
cold in caves of soil, the bulbs, the tubers
burst through aged brown clay, wet through mud slick rains
sun drunk buds, of tulip leaves, petals painted pink
music, the chirp and groan of ponds, a soft bedded mossy home
of woven fern and forest fronds, built for night’s invisible frogs
dogwoods, white as moons, calls heard lovelorn
through an open window.