Living lush & underscored are women still to wait?
Languishing in garden coves content to just be bait?
Obsessed with what not to say, her petals fall to bed.
Never knowing her own bloom; nor seeds within her head.
Waiting for her pollinator, spring has passed her by.
Fruit she hasn’t tasted falls for maggot & for fly.
Evolutions, two, fed upon her beauty rotted.
Fruit’s grave grows her second act; whence her roots were slotted.
May this new wind scatter her to newer unkempt lands…
Where she can grow & spread & leap, free from pruning hands.
L.B.Stowe 