Black Moon

A poem began to form

In my head

With

Cliche images of

Me planting daisy seeds

In my belly,

Sprouting them in my ribs,

And growing beautiful pink

Blossoms in my heart.

Only to have you crush them.

Knowing your contempt of

Daisies, I wrote of cultivating roses --

From seedling, sprout and bud

To long tapering stem with

Delicate petals

In the color of trite writing.

You smelled them, declared them

Fine, and uprooted them to

Plant your fragile

White daffodils with their own

Xanthous center

Whose corms spread

Throughout my being, offering

Perennial yet ephemeral hope.

Alas, in this trope, the blooms

Droop, the leaves wither and

Languish along the ground, blocking out

All but the bindweed that

Entwines itself around my insides.

I will not write that poem, though,

The one where I am but a vacant lot

And you are the squatter.

Wild Rose in Silverthorne, CO

I will compose the poem wherein I

Sow in my core

Wild roses climbing up,

Encircling my heart and

Out my crown,

Replete with deep green leaves,

Cutting thorns, and

Spiraling blooms of crimson,

Coral, saffron, and

Amethyst.

My poem will be inscribed with

Fields of jasmine, lavender, poppies, sunflowers;

Orchards of mangoes, papayas,

Valencia oranges, persimmons, and lychee;

Forests of oak, maple, spruce, cedar, and cypress.

At the feet of my words will grow sweet peas,

spinach, pumpkins, potatoes, and peppers;

Rosemary, sage, and thyme; and

Mushrooms -- yes,

Varieties of edible mushrooms to

Nourish, cleanse, and connect

Through their mycelial web.

A Spring-fed River will water it all.

In this analogy, this imagery, this brand-new

Inscription,

If I write you into my indigenous forest to

Harvest for your table flowers, food, or

Vegetables for a flu-killer soup,

You will not pillage.

You may attempt to plant your

Narcissus bulbs,

But they will coexist among

Crocus, hyacinth, and iris.

Enter anyone who desires, but bring the

harvest of your own garden,

Flowers from your fields,

Fruits of your orchards, the

Offerings of your forest,

And together

We will prepare a feast and

Write a saga.

© 2019 Stephanie L Soder