Sometimes, I wonder –
if we’re too sheltered
in our clam-like greenhouse
with air-cons and mist sprays
and a nest of gardeners
our diseased yellowing leaves.
Can we ever survive
if raindrops hammer
our waxy olive leaves,
if gutsy winds scythe between
our untested branches
and if those spiky caterpillars crawl through
our cellulose throats?
We sit here, prim and proper,
between whispering leaves,
networking with idle roots.
What would our parents think?
They who had floated from beyond
to plant their presence on this rock.
They who had sprouted more leaves
and extended more branches
to grapple for sunlight
before their neighbours could.
How would they exclaim
as they see us, young and high-minded,
yet whippy and wimpy?
Oh, what did that shrub just say?
That we’re too weak to stretch,
too used to being fed –
what with fertilizers dumped about our roots –
too well-taught to ever fight.
Ridiculous, what a comment
from this preposterous alien plant.
But I tire of the chemicals I eat
and love-hate those I wear.
Yes, the perfume sprinkled on me
can kill nibbling grasshoppers
it drowns those flirting bees
and poisons kissing butterflies.
Sometimes, I wonder
if it’s easier not to wonder.
What we need to do
can be really, really easy:
to put out
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