LANTANA

I’d see it coming up

beside a road, a fence,

its spray of fleurets

in intimate assembly:

red, purple, yellow,

pretty and humble. We learned

to pluck them with respect,

string a garland round a friend’s neck,

each village crossroads an abundance.

Sometimes we’d tear handfuls

of the fruit, still green,

to wing at other kids

behind their ramparts.

If grapes beyond a wall

were too far to grasp,

we’d snatch a lantana leaf

and mash it on a fist.

Green thorns lurked

amid the foliage.

In the face of all this wrath

it gave off an unpleasant scent,

its long vines extending

to its blossoms, to the sun,

the moon, the rain, the wind.