Like pervasive, unwanted seeds, words find cracks and root in places where gardens are meant to be…

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Words, cold and brittle, cast out like seeds

lay in heaps on a warm, tender earth.

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One sinks lower than the others and

pushes roots down, cracking open forbidden soil,

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wrapping itself around innocent roots

like the tendrils of some old, persistent tale.

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Vines grow where magnolias were before.

They boast their unwelcome appearance,

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and find unseen cracks, where gardens are meant to be;

places reserved for the fragrant beauty of silent afternoons.

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Where once the healthy stalk whispered her delights

into laughing ears, ready for the rest of the story,

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now she lay choked, emaciated.

For want of sun, flowers, once taut and certain

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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