Blighted Statues
I can only live in a garden
where warped talons
of tiger tulip petals mar
unbroken lines of pastel shimmer,
not where silent cerulean lakes
float as though aloft
in frames of polished stone
to tell the cloudless sky,
I'm your offspring.
I smile for blighted statues
mocked by companies of peonies
effervescing in ballet
and the coarse tusk of St Augustine
thronged by emerald dichondra.
I have no business among wisteria's cornucopias
of lilac bounty nor the glee
of summer marigolds.
I tend thorny stalks
of a wild rose that never blooms
and climbing ferns whispering
in shaded corners of spring's
explosive allemande.
I feel only weight of gray misted mornings
when the dank of coming rain permeates
in pale foliage's stag line
where vines creep in distant communion,
ignored by harsh jonquil rays.
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