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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