ANN: Between the forest floor and the canopy A hothouse that draws this shoot out of the delicate cast of its pod Catching a blush of bruise As it lifts through the mash of leaf and bone
Once in a hundred years And the best flower only in darkness A plant so secret, so rare That no one has seen it Or named it Or tasted its flesh
Cure-all Elixir Hope against all hope And this, the last of its kind
One press of the boot One cut of the saw And who would know Or care Or count the cost?