Bernadine Lortis

From seed lovingly sown in the song of the moon
young tender shoots, not even half grown
emerge. Tiny fists curl, green hugging green,
urge stooped soldier stems to stand sturdy and strong
while scalloped leaf umbrellas guard against rain, wind,
early heat and in the buzz of a bee little buds form. Then
these blossoms— riotous yellow, gold, orange, tomato red
nasturtiums—that I can’t leave alone to roam wildly
all summer long as they were meant. No, no choice for me
when they open but to clutch them hungrily
touch enticed with every scent, my nose smothered
in piquant petals, that peppery tang to my tongue
and yet all the while I cannot justify what I know to be wrong
know they are bound to die sooner in my bedside bowl
sacrificed to an unquenchable thirst for beauty,
beauty I covet so selfishly, every day, every night, all the time.