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