Will You Not Plant Me In Your Garden?
By Juliana Verrelli ‘21
I want to grow roots in your heavenly soil
and bear fruit as presents for your toil.
Weed those sorrows that furrow deep
in your stiff brows wan with sleep.
I seek to nourish and to prosper,
to blossom and to heal.
Turn your tears into my water,
see how much that makes you feel.
My spores sprinkle the air with lavish life,
yet in death I still make a pretty gift for someone’s wife.
Frostbitten and hungry, we’d look even prettier
as early winter’s dusk coats our soft exterior.
You can call me any name you desire,
and forgo the Latin roots.
Enlightened love is what we require
to advance in such a worthy pursuit.
Let me take your heartbreak’s pain,
and turn it into colors underneath the rain.
Paint me when my blush is highest in May,
leaky windows and soaked grass on Sundays.
Thread me between your fingers,
and wherever you go I will linger.
Flowers, once found, are the stars of the earth.
Nature’s tiny treasures wrapped in mirth.
My fascination is rooted too deep to admit defeat,
but neglect makes me shrivel in night’s endless torment.
So press my petals between two wax sheets
and may you always recall the sweetness of our scent.
I’ll tend to your vipers here
and you’ll guard me from rabbits.
But let us be careful, dear,
not to make this a habit.
Time grows so weary
that I should be wilted more in theory.
I don’t know how to say this without
planting in your mind the seeds of doubt.
I’ve found solace in the vast hollowness of the sky.
You now have permission to relieve me of this dirt.
And when you finally pluck the leaves from my
aching limbs, I promise it won’t hurt.
I bloom for your eyes and your soul only,
but I’m afraid your gaze has enraptured me wholly.
Because this is becoming more than we bargained,
I plead again: Will you not plant me in your garden?