I am the one who goes to garden centers in late fall
to look for something that can dare the coming frost
I’m trying desperately to keep the cold away
where everything turns brown and gray
and go against the grain with green
Plant the lonely holdouts who wait
stuffed and root-bound in buckets.
I trust the life still inside them.
I am the one who longs for the first green of spring
the first sprig of grass or yellow of dandelion
and I too am lifted up with the buttercup.
I often go out in the dead of winter to scrap the skin
of any planted stick, and discovering green
lament the scar that I made in my doubt.
Yes, I am the guardian of the extremes,
the limits of life.
I could care less during the verdant, soggy
growing season where everything sprouts
climbs and twists around posts or rails or trees.
In a time of prolific green it all feels too common
too easy too abundant too mow-able
Of course, I can crush anything underfoot with no remorse
in the heyday of fertile fields and gardens and lawns.
But let it struggle, let it be rare,
let it await a life-detective like me
and I will give it mouth-to-mouth and CPR,
constant care
put all my faith in a single stem or bud or pale flower.
Because I seek life
Not for its fulness
but for its rarity!
Lamar Howell's Weblog 