Nothing so coarse as that course
which will take my corpse to the morgue.
A rot in the roots where golden explosions grew,
sees that the soil masks my beauty completely
and my withered state must collect what it's due.
I have let this plant overgrow,
keen to reap the fruits of its embrace when they ripe-
but that comforting clutch is clenching too close
and the now blackening grass is past the graze of my grasp.
I won't be picking fruit again.