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--for Liana
It's wound round the renegade sun flower
again despite my patiently untwisting
it each evening, gently retracing its
widdershins dance, transferring the clasp of tiny
tendril to a black iron post.
Each morning it has crept softly back,
more insistent, and with firmer coils,
preferring the step ladder of green flesh
to the one of hot/cold metal.
There were no latchings till nearly now, the nine
plants stunted by my April optimism,
soaking the seeds to soften their hard shells and
forcing them out too early on
a summer-imposter, new-moon morn.
Now we lounge beside them on the long-
shadowed steps of a June dusk, you
at 13, laughing, leaning your cropped head
to my shoulder, still happy to be with me.
This summer I've nagged you to baby-sit, take a class,
start a project, at least volunteer.
This evening you ask, threading me with a corner of
your eye, why doing nothing is bad.
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