The flame vine sprawls
like a narcissist,
rising on walls and pipes,
covering windows aggressively.
Its nectar draws the monarchs,
but I recognize that hunger,
that demand to climb
into every space.
Every crevice.
Some people
do not ask permission
before they engulf you.

The purple passiflora waits.
It grows slowly,
delicately,
as if asking permission.
Gently it nourishes and hosts
the Gulf Fritillary
a haven in violet.
No urgency, no need.
Only the quiet unfolding
of beauty,
when the time is right.

And I think
this is what love could be.

The Coontie, ancient and low,
offers no flowers,
but gives life all the same.
Atala caterpillars feast,
eggs laid in trust
on dark, slender fronds.
I wait in anticipation
for bright blue wings to emerge.
The hearty roots
once food to the Seminoles
must be treated properly
or cause toxicity,
like a friend
whose loyalty is life-giving
but only if you know
how to handle with care.

The citrus tree,
sharp with thorns,
gives only what it chooses.
White blossoms sing to butterflies,
but fruit comes with difficulty
diseased with canker,
wounded from the start.

To reap its benefits
you must bleed.
Not every relationship
is meant to thrive
without a cost.