Willowherb Boys

In lax, liberal dirt,

lean latchkey weeds oft sprout,

tucked away from the soldierly nurseries

and well-to-do pastures of the

great city gardens.

Watered in neglect, none climb so high as

fair willowherb: long-stemmed princes,

lissom and lithe,

crowned in wreaths of perfumed violet.

Kissed by Zephyrus’ lips they dance a pagan dance

to the tune of their own leaves’ whisper,

honeyed echoes of the town’s lost wild.

Yet standing so tall in such

meagre grounds,

it’s not long ‘fore they must take root

afar. They cast their seeds upon

the wind in angelic founts of cottony ambition,

hunting fast-fading topsoil

unfettered.

All throughout the city, young willowherb boys,

yearning to bloom amaranthine,

some lucky few landing in lilac,

while the rest of us skitter

the gutter,

never to blossom again.