Try as you might,

pen to paper,

you may never be a heliotrope.

Right now, there are too many aphids

on your wilting lupine stalk.

The surrounding nightshades aren’t deadly,

just pruned thoroughly.

They’ve been taught to soak up inspiration

through the loam,

before the summer leaves them

waterlogged and anxious.

Their articulate fruits proliferate steadily,

twisting their couplets around the lattice.

No wonder their produce is meant to be shared.

So if all you grow is crabgrass,

or it never rains enough,

if the aphids get the better of you,

or your ephemeral beauty fades too fast,

know that you cannot always bloom

where you are planted.

But a stem is a start,

and roots will take hold.