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
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
All throughout the city, young willowherb boys,
yearning to bloom amaranthine,
some lucky few landing in lilac,
while the rest of us skitter
never to blossom again.