Christ wears a gas mask,
shudders as Putin’s machine
sputters boots on the ground
in Ukraine, where war weeds choke
sunflowers that bleed black.
By the Polish border,
gardeners plant seeds,
feed their flower beds,
sing songs, hold flower parades.
Everywhere, everything blooms.
They sing their quackgrass canon.
“Fight the quackgrass, pull it out.”
Flowers burst alive with waves of color.
Uprooted quackgrass turns brown and withers.