Let it be a draining of pus
from infected palms, wounded
by the blunt edges of your own
spoiled and sod-soiled nails.
Let it be passion, tempered by wit,
cooled in the afterglow of October Elms.
Remind it of silence, sound and
the harmony found in unspoken lyrics.
Chastise its quietude,
reprimand its resonance
then lay it lovingly
in the arms of the morning glory.
At first, it will wilt with its caretakers
in the brash light of noon. Bind it up.
Whip it like a child, stern, but with grace,
borrowed from a willow switch,
and soon magic will sing, sublime,
with the night-jasmine breath it sighs.