“Revolutionary consciousness is to be found among the most ruthlessly exploited classes:animals, trees, water, air, grasses.”

―Gary Snyder


One morning during the pandemic


the city silent with the fear of death

a hedgehog cactus from among its dangerous spines

gave birth to a single luscious pink and white blossom,

the size of a man’s fist,

its sexual core bright yellow and gooey―

“the promised one,”

as stated in the prophecies.

The blossom, once born in the sunshine, began to preach

the gospel of the earth,

its dance through the wide blue sky,

the sermon explaining


how and why humanity is not needed,

if it ever was, thank you,

for the earth, sun, moon and sky,

the great boundless universe,

to flourish

in the truth of love.

All day long the flower preached,

interrupted from time to time

by a pair of black-chinned hummingbirds,

seasonal migrants from south to north,  

who kept coming by

greedy for communion, the body and blood,

take this and eat, take this and drink.

There was that one black bumblebee too,

squat little beast,

ravaging the delicate core of the flower’s being.

The flower continued its sermonizing


while attending to these duties.

Neighbors and friends,

walking up and down the street,

stopped by to experience first hand

the flower’s message.

What they learned, only time will tell.

We’ll see, won’t we?

The flower preached until sunset

and during twilight it slowly

closed those delicate petals into itself,

packed its bag and disappeared

forever. The cactus

didn’t seem to mind. It had small buds

already perched among its spines,

each with its own truth to tell

―in its own time, of course,

the long hot summer, the winter to come.  


―Bobby Byrd