PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"Do you know why you're resented?" asked Datura.

Sand Spur considered and bristled his trampled stalk,

"Because I'm looked down upon; because they are tall."

Evening fell like a gentle hammer. Stars shone.

Frail trumpets opened and refused the world a song.

They splayed, imitating the colors of the sky.

Datura swayed with the breeze. "You snag at their flesh

and are silent. Your nettles stir in them their dread.

They'll return tomorrow to gnaw at your branches,

for it is they whom you have bled." The moon peeked through

cascading cloud cover and turned green grasses gray.

Fireflies traced aimless, yellow rings in shadow.

"They fall on me with hardened roots and push and twist

'til I've been torn away and sundered from my bed,"

Sand Spur said with bitterness, "still they resent me."

The remainder of his reaches rustled and shook,

dislodging their beads with hooks and spikes to touch down,

where they might blend and be carried away from here.

He fears for their passage but knows, "What may I do?

How will we continue to live? What might we give

as tribute to force their teeth away?" He withered.

Datura considered this and said, with softness,

"Nothing." Pedals fell; her fabric brass ensemble

fell into squalor as night gave heed to new day.

She saw them coming with their jaws held in their hands.

A sickly tear through the din, and Sand Spur was felled;

held aloft for a moment and then tossed aside.

They left and she spied an orb made of spines stuck low

and clinging, quietly, in hopes for a new home

where the truest of weeds are enabled, and grow.