Tender: in which neglect does not come easily

Running across the wall like burnt spaghetti

strung out and terse, a creeper confronts

my stare with an unfolding.


Two leaves in pure symmetry and as still as this day

holds breath for rain, gesture to me to accept

that no harm has come to them,


opening like butterflies resting

in their evolution to colour and flight.

Still I fret, even as wisteria


returns, returns with all the scent

of a past when tenderness

circled around that one spot


of garden, the rudiments of neglect

nowhere apparent, embedded deep inside

their purple panicles


Copyrighted by the author


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