How did this person come to be?
Growing up– No, rather, stretched apart– In this Augustan fantasy.
Reaching towards the vaulted ceiling, sick and struggling for balance in the bright red patent leather heels my father planted in the sanctuary.
Bless his strict and pious soul– He tried to raise me as a tree.
Instead, I grew to be a technicolor shrubbery.
Adorned with sweet and poisoned berries, yielding succulence and spices.
Each fruit of a different season, each one at a different stage of ripeness.
But I can't forget my mother– She who watched me flower in the 3 by 8 foot garden plot she rented in the city.
I leaned upon my neighbors, but they blotted out the sun, my soul, my source of energy.
Like the mighty clumps of Spanish moss thats frame the streets of rural Florida– So delicate, so elegant, and yet, they choke the tree.
Oh, how I envied the northeastern pines–
Oh, how I longed to be forever green.