This gushing, profligate, tawdry spilling forth of invitation.
They make it look easy. You might even believe it is easy.
A relaxed comfortable settling into a sauna of sex,
drowsy intermingling with brief winded spikes of color,
unsatisfactory, unsatisfied, followed by faint yawns
and mild frowns or smiles. The petals shrivel & brown,
the bud slowly plumps into a well-watered blueberry,
late in the season, mild and sweet, or an apple
past its prime. It was anything but easy, though,
anything but mild. The oceans once boiled
with lava and sizzled with lightning strikes,
startling a choking gasp into beginnings of
beginning, a glimmer of structure & purpose.
Beyond simmering & bubbling, the budding —
a morass of microscopic mini-Me’s
that thrived and died, clumped and clustered
for long millennia before any reproduction
that was not asexual became an awkward effort
gleaming in the adolescence of the globe.
Oh, no, it was anything but easy, getting to flowers.