Faith dwells in the rugged hellebores that survived   
the winter of this White House, its traitorous war
against our planet.  Plucky mauve buds rise up

even before the snow has melted, scores of new seedlings
huddled below. While corrupt leaders sow chaos,
compromise our constitution, trade in lies, power and money,  

trust resides in the creeping phlox, its stripes of pink stars
inching through the rock garden, holding fast.  To protest
dawn’s indecent tweets, morning after dewy morning  

each stem in my field of wild petunias opens a fresh         
face of purest lavender, the soul’s daily dose of hope.
There are shootings by ICE agents, National Guard  

troops stationed in our cities, but the poppies return
to the scene in blazing sun. Plump buds and startling red
blooms weigh heavy on thin stems, still wave, stand strong.  

The iris – Dutch, Japanese, Siberian – separated
and relocated to unfamiliar places, nevertheless
emerge intact –  butterfly blue, purple and peach,  

their sword-leaves wrapped protectively. 
One night the Amazon catalpa bursts into bloom,
buries in heady blossoms the shoulder-high  

Hoary Mountain Mint that in just one season bullied
its way through the flower beds that call this home.
The garden, the earth, breathe a sigh of hope.