Do not struggle to pull out
This gnarled vine.
By nature, its grasping roots
Sink into the darkness;
Anchor themselves among rocks,
Grope for the bones
Of the long-buried past.
It chooses its seasons.
You might as well accept it:
Every spring it wakes up
Before any other plant;
Its shoots come up not green,
But crimson, their buds unfolding
From balled fists into palms
Shiny, as if dipped in gore.
Adjust your expectations:
It will not reward you with sweet fruit
For allowing it to have its share
Of rain and sunshine.
You might as well learn to laugh
As it mocks the gardening catalogs
With their gushing promises
Of enchanting scents and delicate petals,
Of silvery autumn parachutes
Wafting out of the meekly shriveling pods
To proclaim hope and faith in the next spring.
This vine grew here, in this soil,
Long before you claimed this land
For your garden.
It is futile to search
For the edge of the sea,
To draw a line in the sand
And tell the water: “No further!”
Neither cunning nor strength
Can change the flow of the tide.
Prayers and offerings won’t
Avert a gathering storm.
Seeking to fathom the depths,
Saving a stranded starfish,
Can only alter the course
Of one fate at a time.
By the end of her life
Her mind was an uninhabited island.
The jungle had taken over:
Every spire and rut of civilization
Had been smothered by a creeping tangle.
Dark, luxuriant and chaotic,
It was filled with carnivorous wildlife,
Bubbling with bloodshed,
