Around the bend I sped with glee, my heart
abound with ardent prayer: that spring may come,
that I may see the sun and taste the sum
of nature’s feast, as decadent as art.
The lovers who in moonlit shadow yearned
as I pedaled, pulse pounding, ‘round the curve
seemed to match my zeal with eager verve —
Had not a respite from the frost they earned?

But as I went along, from corners spoke
a low voice lisping in briny haste
of a darker turn that my soul would soak —
For the garden begotten of last year’s waste,
may churn and turn into tendrils that choke
those friendly climes as with a poison laced.