llex vomitoria
At the arboretum in morning hours
I’m wearing yellow boots. Sit on the creased concrete bench,
leaves speaking come in come in,
the maze of gray limbs, broadleaf elliptic deep-green—
crinkle crouch gusts in the breeze toward spring.
Leaves prick my fingertips. It’s a casual acquaintance with yaupon holly.
The birds turn on morning music, playing in pine straw,
instigate things unseen, strings of tumbled sounds—
scutter, scatter, brown thrasher, bluebird, cedar waxwing
awaiting those chewy berries.
I imagine that the tiny fragrant flowers, laughing,
land upon springtime—nectar for pollinators,
leaves nourishing larvae of the holly blue butterfly.
I want a scarlet dappled berry too, only they are not there.
Yaupon not taken lightly, native to coastal sandy woods
where the ocean meets the sea of creatures,
you grow on dunes, in maritime forests and brackish water.
All the strangeness of your drinkable evergreen leaves.
