Some people are like plants
the gardener never intended.
And I mean that in a
whole host of ways.
Like the bright-tongued
Putting down roots in other people’s patches,
Networking on every breath of wind.
Bramble folk sprawl, broad-shouldered
Laughing sharply at attempts to move them
Shifting to block your way
At every turn.
Others lurk on the borders
Weak-looking and pale,
No barbs or stings, just a quiet rustling.
Yet every day... there are more of them...
I knew a woman once like rosebay willowherb;
I Hope I'm In Clover by fayroberts
Thriving on the sites of disasters
Softening shrapnel-sharp edges
With bold velvet splash.
Laugh like an incongruous purple boa
Among the widow weeds.