This is the heritage of the swamp,
sweltering in humid
extravagance. Trees grow so tall,
in such profusion
they could uproot
DC Metro trains and wear them
as necklaces.
Hordes of plants spread invisible
pollens of memory,
reclamation,
and the desire
to breed.
Even the flower tree,
that sphere of yellow
rooted in an underground
museum, must twine the door handles
in the thick of night
and gnaw them.
Published in Potomac Review, Summer 2001
©Beth Partin 2001. All rights reserved.
