The gate wafts in the smell of rain,
its must and electric tang, the thoughts
of bracken telegraphing through the air.

The moss, a distant cousin, goes on soaking.
The just-add-water sachets return to life,
because they are simple. Because we are not.

The banked graveyards of Europe retain
wartime dead like bulbs in a raised garden bed,
while moss, grass, and clover compete for cover.

Too little water; too little sun. The pride and hope
of living things goes dormant for awhile, snoring
its spore-clouds upward, detonating in fruit.

Too much daylight; too much rainfall. Vines corkscrew
around a diplomat's neck, climb like approval ratings,
roots deploy their supply routes underground.

Green flags roll out their propaganda campaigns.
The insects are convinced. The airlifts begin.
Beetles rifle the leaf cover, ready for casualties.