Given a choice, I would rather have seeded elsewhere—
perhaps in a princess’s garden, where I might glimpse her face
but once a week. Swapping our perfumes, I would die to be
squeezed dry of my oils for her pleasure; but I will accept the
brushing of her fair fingers on my face.
Her groundsman, a man of few words, would tend to me while
his mind was elsewhere. Maybe he would whistle me a tune
to stimulate my stamen.
I could watch the horses leave on long journeys,
kicking up dust into my eyes, and await their triumphant return.
But I’m busy here fighting for the sunshine, tangled and bruised
amongst my neighbours. If I could just enjoy the wind or the soft
April showers, that would fall in July.
The long shadows of the Magnolia are now an unwelcome canopy
at the golden hour, when I would enjoy my best growing,
wishing to stretch with wings.
Written for dVerse Tuesday Poetics
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 