How to Get Away with Murder

A prose poem by Editor-in-Chief Jacob Landau, ’22

Ten violets grow in soft water. Another eight lilies, struck by the early March sunlight, rise through warm gravel. Fifteen roses appear in melting snow. Fifty sunflowers soar through Florida marshes. Dozens of bouquets emerge from the sullen ground daily. Every year, thousands of flowers emerge—yet again in America.

 Flowers grow every year without interruption, but only in spring do they bloom, the sun collapsing on green leaves, the trees harnessing power from the sun, the harnessed energy finally blooming. From the unknown comes daylight, which allows seeds to grow into flowers and buds to blossom—yet again in America.

Seventeen daffodils rise in mud. Eleven lilacs jump through the cracks in the sidewalk. Gardens grow yet again in America.

Spring comes and flowers bloom and the sun keeps shining and seeds manifest and the pedals unveil and the Lord watches over the growing flowers and people observe the gorgeous blossoms and eat their sweet fruits and remember the flowers and cherish them for a week and maybe for a second and continue “thinking” and forgetting and finding new flowers and forgetting again. Yet again in America.

Flowers grow in Boulder. Flowers grow in Parkland. Flowers grow in Sandy Hook. Flowers grow in San Bernardino. Flowers grow in Orlando. Flowers grow in Colorado, in Florida, in Pennsylvania. Flowers grow yet again in America.

When night falls, the sun no longer shines. The flowers remain in the ground, but no more can grow. God steals the sun. Icarus survives. Seeds are seeds, and flowers do not blossom. But for now, flowers still grow. Consciousness undergoes inertia; there is no rebirth. The sun rises in the morning and shines once again.


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