“They tried to bury us, they didn’t know we were seeds.” – Mexican activists, 2013

The ground is too hard today. It resists even the spade.
Lillies too are hard, and my heart: hardness in spades.

I ask if truth exists. It’s not a trap. Why lie?
I cannot force you to call a spade a spade.

You say, let sleeping dogs lie. But who sleeps these days?
You say, pick a card, any card. You hid the ace of spades!

Sunlight bounces off the frozen ground. Sadness as well.
The sky is bright and sad. What if a spade is not a spade?

Life is not a game. Why insist I pick a card, any card,
then feign surprise when I draw the two of spades?

Scaffolds are going up around the world I knew. Fountains
spout oil. Saints give way to gargoyles: darkness in spades!

You say, careful with your words. Do you mean, do not speak?
You’ve anointed a coward king: he won’t call a spade a spade!

Everywhere the decks are shuffled. The decks are stacked.
You don’t hide it anymore: in your sleeve, the ace of spades!

Life is a game. You don’t set the rules. Seasons do, and birds.
You say truth is dead. I hear the Sparrows singing in spades.

Like a rancher clearing rainforest for beef, you ply your awful trade,
declaring victory as though there were no seeds, no waiting spades.