Take us ornately hanging girls
composed of candles and scintillating light, as sacred as bael fruit. It is our wild-born nature to cling to the canopy, our hair a smoldering nest, each eye a pinhole star alert to hunters with hunger-driven mouths.
Gather us only if you dare
spread our wilding seeds through wind-tossed, bosky evergreens to flourish buds and persistent vines. Our tendrils court the sun, bearing up through menses and menarche, through hours barbarously lush.
Part our tangle of humid leaves
Climb our flaring ascent to sun-garbled skies, mind our brittle luster. We challenge with quicksand mixed by our hands, the snares of our spines, our scalding nectar.
Our florid harvest
bestowed on rangers, on seedsmen who graft without a wound.
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Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
