Floriculture

My fingers slip up the neck
of a crimson geranium
darkened within but resting
a bright crown along its rim

like a fly-trap it waits
for bees to draw nears its edge
then envelops them between
its thirsting, velvet petals

the dry hairs of its stem
writh from long-empty soil
taking the tip of my thumb
I caress a droplet in

to the pistil, shaking
into life, the first wet breath
of spring, arriving to spawn
heartbeats of nearby seedlings

into life