Here, I foster
these loose leaves of this complete herbarium
ranging from common weeds to fabled reeds.
Still, I wander
from private gardens to hidden forests
in search of undiscovered vegetation.
On an overcast afternoon
between accommodations,
I come across a greenhouse,
clean and unseen here before.
Inside are brown dilapidations:
wilters grounded and walled and hung
witness the urban ashen smog
within the bourbon glass that wrongs.
From the shadows
arises a green reaper on vacation
disguised in golden denim overalls.
From the meadow,
a brittle stem is snapped and passed to me.
“Even death has its appeal.” The reaper deals.
I attempt some preservation,
but the quintessential stick
is crunched into smithereens
and perennial loose leaves.
A brown house of mirrors uncloaks me
with withering aspirations
and forever intertwines me
in this complete herbarium.
Outside commences that cool rain
I wish I wanted to lie in.
Lisla is a thankful vagabond who has a home in nature and writing. Their work will appear in Unhoused: Yearning for Home.
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