Why does the cabbage
provoke such hatred,
unlike the sugar cookie
in an airtight package?

Why does the lover know
the way of the garden so well,
yet stampede off into
the path of daisies?

It is the same as why
I must contend with the
aftermath of my family,
and become the spy
amongst the shrubs.

It's the same as why
I must speak to my
uncle like a cherub angel
who knows nothing of
his place in the cosmos.

It's the same as why
I bite into a
strawberry to
taste nature's
emerald,
glowing with
answer and resolve.

It will always
be just a strawberry
      to them.