Nettles

March: pinked leaflets sprout
from nooks and chinks, peeking out
like shy faith from doubt,

like spring from winter.
Surprising still, how tender
they start, and render,

with pale green pardons,
vacant lots, sudden gardens,
till summer hardens

his hot argument,
and gentleness is spent, spent,
nor will dust relent.

Then the nettles wedged
by pots on the window ledge
lash out like a grudge

at blind blunders—herb,
like hate or love, barb by barb,
grown from noun to verb.

Copyright © 2006 A. E. Stallings All rights reserved
from Hapax
Triquarterly Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission