The trumpets and orientals are done for,
their posh parts stuffed into kosher
brown bags like commoners.

Hosta blooms swing along stalks,
cold little blue children, clinging to life. 
The bell flowers flutter, sound the alarm:

“Beware the clean up crew cometh.”

I come bearing shears. 
In my gloves and flannel shirt,
I come dragging body bags.

The craggy-faced waste man comes
in the big truck that scares the cats,
collects the dead like trash. 

I imagine the first time
there was all this madness and mayhem.
Man must have thought it 

the end of the world.
(I picture him keening at the sky, 
shaking his fists, blaming sinful neighbors.)

Imagine the ecstasy then,
the unabashed rapture,
when after the long winter
spring sprang.

© by Laurel Devitt.
Used here with the author’s permission.