Plant Catalogs are Crack

When the groundhog’s been sadistic

when a “high of 50 degrees” yanks my chain

that colorful pile of cheap shiny paper

croons my name.

If I buy enough plants, spring will come.

If I send enough dough off to Bloomington, Indiana

(have you noticed how all these “different” nursuries

are in Bloomington, Indiana?)

tropical warmth will touch down with a riot of fragrance

in every kicky, candy-sweet hue on the wheel

and I will samba on the patio and drink lemonade

in a splashy sundress and paint my toenails

mandarin. Plant catalogs are crack.

In my email box appear letters from Bloomington,

“thank you for your order”–orders I’ve forgotten

but must have placed at 3 a.m., my nightly bout

of winter insomnia best soothed by shopping.

They’re crack. Full of plants that “thrive in difficult soil”,

that “love gravel and salt”, are “drought tolerant”, “pest resistant”,

and will make me “the envy of my neighbors”.

Oh, to be the envy of my neighbors, my double-blue clematis

vining up my mailbox post, the Empress Wu hosta attaining

six-foot splendor creating privacy for me, sipping pinot grigio

amidst the breathtaking majesty of trumpet lilies

guaranteed to rapidly attain the stature of small trees

and all I have to do is hit “submit”.

Oh, and pay for them later. And plant them, later.

Crack, I tell you. 25 strawberry plants come today.

It’s much too cold to plant them.

I’m going to buy some more. Spring will come.