I don’t know why the tulip’s blossoms falter
By summer under the most caressing rays
Or how much intensity it would take
To break a single stem into a nutshell.
Sun scalds the kneeling gardener’s back
Like boiling water on toddler’s toes. I don’t know
Who planted the irony in sustainability.
Would the forest canopy morph
Into a seven-story greenhouse brimming
With counterfeit vines, cultivated in panels?
I don’t know what they derive
From photosynthesis. There must be more
Than simple sugars strung into carbohydrates.
There must be something driving
A botanical economy to produce
These tasseled chains. I don’t know where
To buy stock in seasons: rainy, acidic,
Temperate, dry. In each I am left, a bud
Wilting beside me as I tan.
We meld annually into a compost in the shade
Of crackled, ravaged limbs.