you like a mat from my floor,
pick you up and throw your dirt
out to a long wind, away.
But you have brushed each room of
my house with your scent, have touched
these walls with more than one color.
Winds that flatten even the boldest
trees could strike all this, right
to the foundation. And still
you would thrive underground,
a firm root, food I would need.
Even if all that were gone,
you would be here: every
one of the tunnels of my
body spills with your fruit.
by Wendy Barker