The withered shoot will desiccate,
The sickly sapling coruscates
Luxuriant and loved a while
With tender fondness, as a child
Who loves its greenness but abates.
It's not enough to briefly sate
The wandering eye's need with spates
Of evanescent, dying smiles;
Grow up, for love won't reach the dead.
The sturdy tree we designate
As worthy, and determinate
Not on those weeds without the guile
Or otherwise tenacious style
To grow from their own lands their fate.
Grow up, for love won't reach the dead.
A place for my poems 