The plant grows and grows.
Untame, rebellious.
The Man with his strings
Gathers wayward limbs,
Clumsy, he bunches
The happy young branches
That shoot off and stray,
That can’t grow his way.
The string goes round
the protest of escaped fronds.
He tucks each leaf under
Within bounds of his order.
Tears for the Man, he’s done his duty
Ne’er a thought that wildness holds beauty.
Tears for his hands torn; they bleed,
From the angry thorns of his own seed.
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2 comments:
i think i understood this one... :)
There's a fine line between guiding and restriction. You never know when the former turns into the latter. I guess we all just fumble and play by ear, eh?
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