When heat fuels the wanting in my limbs, I creep into your middle, inhabiting your forbidden places. The words “Invasive!” and “Unwanted!” spray out of you and into me… I don’t believe them—wilting shouts can’t touch me. I know that. You know that. So I stretch… curling my tendrils around you, choking you lovingly, my devotion leaving you breathless. You call me “Weed!” and your manner speaks of insult. But looks lie. I smile, squeezing you harder and harder… You wail, “I need my space back, you rot. You don’t belong in my plot.” I feel you trembling in my hold, going limp, and I know you’re doing it for me. So I wrap my Self around your all… until none can tell the difference between my scent, my roots, and what once was you.
sun spreads my passion,
as wild as summer teased fires,
consuming you whole
a not so wee note…
– When Rommy, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, said that she wanted poems of “Weeds in the Garden”, and Sanaa’s Prompt Nights whispered her upcoming theme about how “Passion makes the world go round”, I was sure I wanted to write about my passiflora plant. I mean, passion flowers are considered weeds by many, aren’t they? The idea was too perfect not to run with. Well, at least I thought so. Then the Muse heard the voices of the psycho weeds choking the life out of the skinny tree below… and today’s mildly creepy haibun was born. I didn’t take a picture of the whole tree. If I had, you would’ve noticed that it’s the skinniest of its kind, and that only the leaves of the choker remain. I found the sight quite sad, and scary…