Back when I was root-bound,
things were simpler…
and more abused.
They planted us in schemes…
Snowdrop, Honeysuckle, Speedwell…
pretty names for the garden
they wouldn’t let connect
to their clean soil.
One vein in,
winding the hill’s body
for miles.
There was supposed to be two.
Then they worried:
what if the rot spreads?
So six hundred flowers
in six hundred pots
spiral toward the heart…
the tap that never closes,
kept by a man
the poison claimed before fifty.
We fed on what they gave us…
fertilizers to keep us flowering
in place.
To leave, reverse your veins.
Most roots go too deep.
They called it planning.
We called it Zulu.
The garden where I grew…
no wonder so many weeds.
- UpsilonA