Digital parameters needle me
like a cold aching wind,
drying your skin, and shortening muscles.
Electronic furrows don’t drain well,
nor are they fertile with humus,
and spring slowly creeps in.
I hook a Calla lily stem,
and rob the stamen of the creamy
pollen hovering like small atmosphere
around its finger planet.
I rub it on my cheek
in a sudden ridiculous ritual,
drawing in some earthly connection.
Perhaps a small salutation
to the security of seasons,
amid the cement, exhaust,
and screens that delineate most days.