. . . had to die, of course

the universal plan

but also maybe from my deadly/deathly touch

what touches me

and what I touch

all doomed

and swiftly too

attraction sad mistake

right from the start

the beauty of those blushing blooms

the shockingly sweet scent

cried out to me

seemed to want me

in that yielding month of May --

may I? you may! seemed message then

season, moment, person, place

all felt so strangely right

despite bereavement, brutal grief and loss

buds were opening

seemed to answer want with want

seemed to meet need with nature's need

not so, a dirty, drear mistake

now to be new year remedied

though remedy is not the word

there is no remedy

just silent turn away, hushed death —

end of hope, of thought —

surely, in time, end of all the wanting too?

'til then, a queer dark satisfaction

to see each day the pot of baby rhododendron sprouts —

love-nurtured cuttings from alluring parent plant —

all dead, all done, all withered up and gone

thank god! no more reminders

of bursting perfumed springtime love

engendered all those months ago

no more shamefilled aftermath

lurking on my doorstep

as I leave lonely home each lonely winter day. . . .

look down —

oh no! see different pot, forgotten

lurching tall with bright green rhododendron growth

bold babies stretching high, vivid, vital, thick stemmed

is this . . . could this be that same sweet-scent flesh-toned one?

is it still here unseen, hidden but not dead

still secret growing, thriving after all?

oh no! danger pleasure rising

sick stupid smile

fighting forth

on perma-gloomy downturned lips

oh.

no.

fuck no.

***

(image above — rhododendron Else Frye)