God of Cactus
These button-nosed earth huggers
sporting floral whorls of flame,
all bursting crimson within a day or two
of one another—will never see
their own fine-petalled calyxes
meant for the eyes of bees.
Neither will they taste
the syrupy but barbed fruits
disarmed by famished cactus wrens,
nor sow the seeds these birds excrete
full fertilized to the sun-drenched soil.
Still less will they set eyes upon
the swelling thumbs of prickly green
that their roots will clone next spring,
nor watch them lift on spindly legs
and bloom, as I did, fancying myself
some kindly and omniscient god,
who knows them better than they know
themselves. A god who kneels beside one,
speaks its name. And loves it dearly
thorns and all.
