To be alive is power – Emily Dickinson

We don’t expect
to be here tomorrow
so we are ruthless
with our small lives
we pump fragrance
into the morning
jewel the afternoon
bend our petals
like thumbs at night
after the scrape of drought
cloud is our deliverance
water comes down
in silver wires
and ants twitch air
between our roots
the rough lick of the hose
leaves a cleft for diffidence
the crest of
a worm’s tender head
we eat bones
blood and meat
and our own bodies
and yours