Keep your steely-eyed offerings,
your garden pretense, botanical bliss,
your reedy wisp of asparagus,
no longer green-speared, but gray-leaden.
Hold in check your artichoke words,
the petal pull of anger-dipped butter,
core-covering the heart of new spring,
my palmed heart, still tender, still looking
for unsullied celery, small boats of clean,
green sea washing to red sunset, rhubarb lined horizon.
Refine your sugar-shafted sight,
angled to hard cane truth.
Know that syrup can boil.
Spears can pierce,
and my heart can be shaded,
yet swayed, in one subtle trace.