I walk by a garden that’s not mine.
Not everyday, but less than I’d want.
It has a flower blossoming right by the gate.

It’s petals are green.  They sparkle with dew.
Bright and glowing at all times of the night and day.

It’s face is fire. Crackling and warm, a beacon to lost souls and small animals. Warming pieces of people that were unknowingly frozen.

It’s stem is lithe. Twisting, gently curving its way up to the sun. Strong enough to hold its head up and not bow to the wind.

It’s roots, enigma. I do not know how deep they go. But I’d be willing to try find find a *** big enough to hold them all stretched out.

I’d wish to have such perfection in my garden.
I’ve tried placing beauty in it, to no avail.
I once even planted a pretty **** with thorns and spikes. It didn’t last either.
Perhaps my land is salted.