The Garden Club Uprising

Gloves off in the rose beds,

we kneel not in prayer

but rebellion—

trowels scraping against

the neat borders they drew

for us.

Petunias become protest signs,

marigolds flare like warning lights

between our teeth.

We speak in Latin names

that taste like power:

*Bellis perennis* for resilience,

*Dicentra spectabilis*

for hearts that refuse to stop bleeding.

The president’s wife

clutches her shears,

but we’ve already seeded

the cracks in the sidewalk

with wild strawberries—

something sweet

and impossible to contain.

By autumn, the whole town

will be overgrown

with our quiet revolution,

vine by vine,

thorn by thorn.