In a corner of my garden grows a plant.
Once an overgrown profusion of green:
spade-shaped leaves, an ivy guarded by thorns.
I never walked too close, afraid
of tendrils capturing my ankle,
dragging me into itself –
then, never free, forever lost in that barbed lattice.
On occasion, and only at night,
it burst into bloom.
Waxy, white petals,
surrounding a flower cup,
gleaming in the dark.
Each floral chalice
holding drops of fluid,
heavy with unbearably sweet, hot scent.
For a season, this plant tangled around my heart.
And then, within life’s pattern,
I work in my garden,
potting and pulling
spent flowers off vines.
Glancing at times
to the place where that plant once thrived.
But nothing grew there.