The scarlet torches of crape myrtle
Crowd my window, kindled by the sun.
Their thick foliage blocks my view
Of all but the treetops and the sky.
I enjoy the flower-clusters, and butterflies
That visit here, green midges, and bees
That traffic in nectar and yellow pollen.
I might still learn economy or lore
From their abrupt, impulsive intimacy.
But I am jealous of the light that’s lost
To these gorgeous interlopers that began
Five years ago and twenty feet below
As blooming shrubs against the wall.
I remember the castle in a fairy tale,
Overgrown with brambles, trees, and vines,
Fallen under a curse, or witch’s spell,
Lost to the world for years, impenetrable—
A house where only sleep was possible.
I cannot see the garden for the flowers.
Time to throw open the sash. Be merciless!
Out with the shears, off with their pretty heads.
—DANIEL MARK EPSTEIN