Poetry by Jade Cuttle
Cover Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Snowdrops
A flower would never rip out its roots and run –
I know this only too well.
I’ve been stalked by ice most winters,
the sort that claims each crack as its own
– can’t even speak for months, only creak
and claw at the cold earth.
But when the dawn shakes out its dew
and finally I thaw – flicker back to life
when its water licks and leaks into light
– I at least give it some thought.
I pack up my petals and the last of my leaves,
bend down to kiss the earth goodbye –
I even bow! mistaking the rattle of rain for a round
of applause awarded by the clouds like confetti.
I swear there was a standing ovation of trees
straining their sinews just to commend my courage.
Yet still I share the silent fury of seeds –
grappling with a ground that just won’t give.
I fire out a flower – a flare – a distress signal
to the bees saying: please, dig me out from this dirt!
and though I hear the hum of their rescue mission
shivering down my spine they simply pollinate me
with the promise that next time, when I’m sown back
into the soil – next time, I will bolt straight out from my bulb.
Moulin Rouge
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