Bloom Where Born Poem by Patti Masterman

Bloom where born, though candles light the trees,
Though fire consume the census, in all the least of these.
Bloom where born, the wick grows black with soot,
The fire is climbing higher; some mischief is afoot.

Bloom where born, the grape dies on the vine,
The silver-shoon are leaving, and men march on the Rhine.
Bloom where born, their boots surely are stamping,
The kettles are on fire, and black on black is tamping.

Bloom where born, your mother was a seamstress,
Your father ran the circus, with his sometimes-paramour.
Bloom where born, for your father's loins were seedless-
To see you made him speechless: his sole progenitor.