“Blessed be the bulbs” by Karen George

scarred knobs like lumps of clay
you’d discard if you didn’t know
they sheathed a condensed life:
timepiece that pinpoints
when to uncoil, claw
through cold-packed earth,
a compass and craving to rise,
nudge, guzzle what it needs,
cleave the crust, green up,
the blueprint of when and how
to divide into stalks, leaves, buds
of petals that dilate,
consume sun translucent.

-Karen George

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