I keep snapdragon seeds in my left pocket.
My own garden doesn’t need them;
its blue violets and ivy flourish.
Those at my side are my secret stash.
I plant them in gardens miles from mine,
or slip them to slender busboys
who lean in close to clear my plate.
I fling them with force over lonely fields,
but they don’t need to be empty
for me to want to seed them.
I don’t intend to water them
or shield them from summer’s sear.
I daydream about their flowering,
but won’t take more definitive action.
I only fall in love too often,
and want to ...