Oleander

It grew here from a wayward seed.
I let it, for the easy flowers it might give,
and it thanked me by poisoning the ground
until grass wouldn’t grow in its shadow.
I cut it but it grew again, took more,
turned this corner of the garden
to a thicket that I couldn’t enter.

Now I cut again, this time to end it.
Pulpy branches bleed white venom,
deadly sap that sticks and dries:
I could die by licking my own hand.
No way for a man to depart, licking himself.
And Oleander -- it kills the heart you know,
makes it forget why it beats, give up on living.

Some day if I’m diligent, kill every shoot
and gouge out every root I will be rid of it.
Perhaps it’s just a hope now, but some day
when sun and rain have washed the soil clean,
I’ll plant a rose.