by some definition, myself, as late bloomer.

but under what sky does this matter, when the maples are

giving us their memory-sweet sap sooner than they ever did?

when the evergreens are gasping to be fed? when structural conditions do not

take accountability for chemicals spilled all over this hand made of soil? 

i almost called it my hand, but only because of love, or a tether. it never was.

it is the woodpeckers, hence their destruction of my mother’s bedroom wall.

it is the porcupines, hence their snacking on the cabin’s logs.

it is under the stewardship of the council of the three fires, 

only the structural conditions do not acknowledge this 

with anything but a trite half-sentence.

it is grammatically complete. it is empty. 

i am guilty of this same trite half-sentence. that which i assuage myself for with positionality like my left hand facing outward, pushing. but i brushed the soil off my fingers onto my coat, i feared the porcupine, i shouted at the woodpeckers.

i have loved chrysanthemums as symbology for autumn’s tilt. late bloomers.

i welcome every snowdrop that blossoms in february outside my mother’s dryer vent. 

we are disconnected from ourselves when we throw our damp shirts into forced hot air. 

spring is calling forth the primroses, the daffodils and crocuses. all golden. 

by some definition, myself, in the spring of my life. just verging into summer. 

structural conditions do not take accountability for how this may not be true.

i ask the cowboy, will we still be here, with air to breathe, when the next eclipse comes when we are forty-seven? 

hope is sometimes repression. to deserve anticipation of a future.

when i was ten, i stood at the end of march with my mouth at a metal tap, drinking xylem memory. 

i beg, please may the baby under the path of the eclipse grow up to be able to drink the same cold sweetness. 

or will the structural conditions necessitate his mother tell him stories 

of what used to happen in the forests every spring equinox? 

but who am i begging? the structural conditions are not simply conditions that exist. they are built. and they will not answer. the upholders desire the end of my desire. our desire. the upholders do not notice the golden daffodils. the upholders give us imposed separation. disconnection from each other.

if i sent a pressed daffodil blossom to the correctional facility, the bird-boy would get a scanned copy, 

blossom thrown in the trash. 

this is who i am begging. they will not answer. the bird-boy is one of millions who cannot touch the daffodils. 

it is up to us to answer.

the upholders give us imposed separation. disconnection from self. 

allegedly, late bloomer. 

does this epithet not merely come from

failure to reproduce to fill the factories, or oil fields, or the prisons? 

even those who call ourselves most radical:

interrogate this. 

interrogate how we assign meaning to exactly that which sought

to assimilate us. abolish time. 

what if i bloom as a foxglove? toxic flower called thimble, called soft 

mittens for foxes to wear as they hunt their prey.

will the structural conditions hear me coming? 

allegedly, i will…

what if i bloom as a nightshade? by some definition, called solanaceae. solace. to soothe. 

poison to the structural conditions, solace to the sky, the soil. to soothe the water, to soothe my loves.

to soothe myself. 

i want to be as spiky and healing as echinacea. as soft and unexpected as sumac. 

growing in the easements where i’m not supposed to be.