Bright passion’s petals make it hard to see
That all our individuated loves
Are single blooms in complex gardens. We
Are lost too easily in forests of
Fantastic beasts with topiary smiles,
Or flytraps sweet with promises and glue.
The dark beneath the greenery beguiles,
And sense is drowned in nectar, till bamboo,
With just a whisper of insidious shoot,
Has pricked into the heart. Perhaps we ought
Step back to see the pattern in the root,
Or think, and not be frightened at the thought,
That love may blossom (and as always, die)
To please some unseen Gardener’s heart and eye.