A cliche thrown out last night, ‘she has grown on me’,
passive receptive of this botanical feat,
corpse like feat feeding future flora inside,
probing subtle roots talking of painful past now fixed,
covering around my shielded fig exterior,
barrier formed to a life I lived,
the soft leafy bed to keep from the cold ground,
holds in place as thorns slowly sprout,
fruit incomparable sweet flavor,
must navigate an acee poison trip wire,
a japanese blowfish of green,
expert mine defusal to render nurture locked inside,
fused and grown cannot live without,
oblivious I replaced its soil source,
happy to feed what I can.