I didn't listen to the napo prompt today and kind of went off on my own. This "poem" or err.. shitty draft of a poem, was inspired by this poem by Karr and walking in the garden with Brubru.
In spring, it's green, life-giving green and wide
with leaves the size of outstretched hands that give.
Its limbs are shelter for the ladybugs
that come like weary hobos, always hungry
and the vines are refuge for the persecuted
fireflies that need a little respite
for the day until the Texas sun
goes down and night will cover up their faces,
set them free. But somehow, you know that autumn
will come and as the cold front blows in,
life will river from leaves like blood
from the dying as the ground grows cold.
Instead of mourning at the loss of fruit,
of sweetness on the tongue, you'll nod your head
and patiently explain to me that's how
the story has to go -- that every season's
hard-earned growth will need your hands
to sheer it all away. You'll snap the limbs,
dismember, leave a lifeless shell of trunk.
It's what you have to do, you'll say, and turn
the hose on, if you want to have this water
turned to wine.