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.