There are strange flowers
growing in the garden of my mind.
Insidious weeds, they are, but delicate:
fresh, luminous things that light the night,
throwing shadows like full moon light.
I’ve seen them before, these flowers,
and too many years of plucking them
and giving them to the wrong person
has left me suspicious, unsure —
and yet, here they are again,
fresh from soil not yet bitter enough
to be barren.
Tantalizing they are, these flowers,
and carefully I tend my garden around them:
a sprinkle of water to encourage them, though
never quite close enough to taste their scent.
There are strange flowers
growing in the garden of my mind, and though
I fear them,
I help them grow.