You loathe me.
I can tell by the way
you drive dulled prongs
into the soil
and twist.
Or plunge your rusted wedge
into my heart of secrets,
to loose my grip
on life.
I see the way you look at me
when I resist,
the bile rising in
your eyes.
What is it that offends?
Your vapors leave me
breathless, stinging,
withering
on Why?
Don’t you know your war is folly?
For even as I wilt,
my sister sheds her crown of
fresh seed tears
to spite your pride.
©2016 by Barbara Froman
Barbara Froman 