It's a simpler trip for the undead:
a zombie need only
claw to the surface,
brush off worms,
be on his way.

But a bulb does not unearth full-bloom.
First a tentative shoot,
then the wary, budded coil.
There is danger of frost,
of forest teeth,
of trampling.

And how can it know
but by faith
when it is safe to say
it loves the sky?
How can it be sure its heart
carries anything more
than a fistful of dirt,
that after the dark freeze
a green stirs
within it still.