I tore out the agapanthas
Leaves sawn, thrown in a heap,
Butchered the roots with a pickaxe
And stuffed the brainy clumps into bags.

The wormy soil left steaming in the sun.

The bumble bees return to find the ruin where their tunnel entrance must be.

The compost, the horseshit, trowels and seedlings abandoned in the shade.

We shall forgive these trespasses.  The chaos and confusion.  The blame and retribution and look not upon the sap plastered pickaxe, but, in horror, still disbelief, at the bees trying to make sense of it all.

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