a verdant sea encircled me, alone, entranced, considerate. i lay tentatively for she, but it’s made none the difference —
i think some oak must hide her, encapsulated in wood grain, or perhaps she’s ducked beneath a weeping willow’s sun-kissed mane.
or maybe, now... acacia? dwelling in its canopies? thoughtful, present-day Hypatia, weaving deep analyses?
whether she’s comfy nestled in a nettle or well snuggled up in roses’ thorns — “she loves me”, still will read the petal, cursed, floral bearer of my scorns.
it’s funny, in a tragic way, to ponder and consider: botany seems so passé; flowers grow as quick as they wither!
but dendrology is drudgery, on a same, yet opposite coin; for it could be birch, maple, or cudgerie where a glimmer of chance adjoins.
the toils of my patient wait call fervent on the wind, but, truthfully, a love made late is safer than caution’s rescind.
i’ve held these close, these words i’ve scrawled, to my chest, curled ‘gainst the pine for i’ve no clue if she too would fall...
... as ... ... i ... ... will ...
..from her fragile vine.