They stood across
From one another
One planted
One imported
It was as though
A dove entered
Its branches singing
A smudged laudate
Could be made of it
But the vine was already
Covered with caterpillars
Eating her away
And the dove flew off
Pursued by her mate
But in the epilogue
The tree blooms blue
Is it shame or glory
And the vine
Fills with butterflies
Orange and dusky brown
No comments:
Post a Comment