“The Complicated Sex Life of Primula ...

A Mardi Gras of primroses line my driveway.

Pin-eyed, thrum-eyed, natural selection in action;

the carnival of primroses grow in number daily.

Every spring they perform street theater, they perform

the Easter story with beads, feathers, and leather tongues.

Yellow vests, they agitate against the March snow; late

calling card of winter. They are frozen cells of embryos

waiting to live. In my garden, cultivated,

I have red primroses; I have blue. Posy-globes in orbit,

they contain unconquered territories. Spring after spring

the primroses unleash their watchful eyes, opening

despite the northeasterlies. When the thaw comes, I paint

my body half-primrose, hang a nosegay of thirteen primroses

by my front door. I look into a primrose the way one

looks into a mirror to see the same exaggerated grin;

the same teardrop staining the face.