Love-Precarious
by Odin Roark

For some
passion’s garden is of carnivorous plants,
saccharine seedlets once resting,
becoming precarious flirtation,
artificial tears destined to betray.

For others,
even accepting the navigation of thorny defenses,
the garden is of edible rapture,
a discovery of that which nurtures love's growth,
the harvesting of passion's nourishment,
the tranquil celebration of emotion's singularity.

How innocently we hoe the rows,
cultivating anticipation
while the pistil's epicurean appetite
patiently welcomes nightfall
and the restful closing of its portals.

And yes,
the garden also knows of dust storms
laying flat once vigorous adventure,
placing thirst upon parched hearts,
leaving only hope for the quench
that an honest teardrop of joy can give.

But still,
imagination offers limited resistance to voracious winds,
a tempest determined to reveal chameleon-like weeds
sprouting upward into the gale
from cauldron-rich soils
invading passion's tenuous resistance,
seducing the trusting gardener in us all.

Inevitably…

One’s need will succumb
at least once to amour’s sleight of hand,
reducing blooms of flowered seduction
to but gathering mulch,
leaving passion reaching up,
asking the unanswerable…
the why of drought,
the way for magic,
the overcoming of love-precarious.