Columbine

A name is not a place but invades a place as a plant does—these blossoms along the road are not the blossoms the killers brought when they hunted the innocent through haunted halls— a flower’s form pre-exists and survives its particularity— reborn to an expected season— the pattern outlives its own blossoming as the shape of a loved one’s face persists in a living relative— the pattern was there in the stuff of the plant before becoming transformed becoming— pick it, kill it or let it stay— the plant will return as everything returns to a place to come where place no longer matters when there is no mind to contemplate what the plant itself can’t comprehend— seeds settle where seeds settle to manifest themselves into what they must— neither horrible beauty nor ruthless truth but a

celebration of anther-capped stamens and pent pistils cupped in a five-pointed crown leading to meteor spurs— where secret nectar’s kept— surrounded by a star of five tinted sepals— an engineered explosion meant to propagate what they are where ever they find themselves— named or un-nameable— seen or unseen—alive or dormant—beyond apocalypse— past extermination—unto an extinction as certain as the journey—

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