The Botanist

I don’t think he knows
he’s beautiful—
which is lovely and strange
and maybe even telling
of a kind of innocence
that comes from loving
wild things better than
human things, who sting
and wither and grow thorns
that can be hard to pull out
if his center is as soft and fragile
as his Bleeding Hearts—
those plump and tender blossoms
who return to him every year—
and will never break his heart.

DeMaris
11-25-16

One thought on “The Botanist”

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