From the third prompt at Poetry Thursday : perennial
You have planted a garden
of bitter herbs, of everything
that has spines and thorns.
You are bored even with the colours
of your happiness. You want flowers
of different hues. You are moving
to another part of town. Do not expect
things to be different there. You carry
your seeds with you: in your hair,
under your fingernails, caught in the folds
of your desires. With every exhalation
they shower onto the earth.