Like pervasive, unwanted seeds, words find cracks and root in places where gardens are meant to be…
Words, cold and brittle, cast out like seeds
lay in heaps on a warm, tender earth.
One sinks lower than the others and
pushes roots down, cracking open forbidden soil,
wrapping itself around innocent roots
like the tendrils of some old, persistent tale.
Vines grow where magnolias were before.
They boast their unwelcome appearance,
and find unseen cracks, where gardens are meant to be;
places reserved for the fragrant beauty of silent afternoons.
Where once the healthy stalk whispered her delights
into laughing ears, ready for the rest of the story,
now she lay choked, emaciated.
For want of sun, flowers, once taut and certain
cry out against their wanton pursuers.
“This is not life!” they cry.
Pull me from this place of shame
and replace these bony fingers of macabre intent
with a throat renewed, a deeper breath,
and pause to stretch and sigh once more.
Picture thanks to www.spinningspokes.com