Poetry of the Times
I remember their wild clusters
waved by sea-breeze near the old
petals and pods exposed like skin
sun might lick with lust,
how I yearned for beauty,
and the moment, like Rapunzel's
father, I stole them.
Back home, I scattered seeds on
and they spread on wind to the
past the pond where herons preen.
Years later, old temptation has
over the mountain to grow
in the cracks of city sidewalks.
Today I arrange thin green stems
and purple-black flowers in a
where they will live one more day
before blossoms fall like
And after composing my dying still
I stand in the garden with my
eager to cut heads
multiplied beyond all desire,
their halved seed pods
shaped in perfect omegas,
death and life blooming mindless
ready to flower on whatever island
will sustain them.