Wisteria

A shady grove there does exist,

Hidden beneath the morning mist,

A parting of woods thou doth see,

And here grows the wisteria tree,

Purple blossoms dew hath kissed,

Many a witch has told its gist,

Flowers veil in front of me,

Inward bound my utmost glee.

Search you may for the eternal plant,

Though locals sing a different chant,

They sing from trees above that tower,

But the wisteria boasts a different power,

A wearied man, aged and scant,

Broken-minded, back at slant,

Approached the green at a cower,

And plucked a petal from its flower.

Aroma of peace filled his head,

Under the tree he made his bed,

And there he slept the rest of his life,

Forgetting his children and his wife,

He dreamed of things fairer instead,

Thoughts of violet, troubles left dead,

He dreamed away sorrow, sadness, strife,

Never again would he live by the knife.

A woman with child came to the sprout,

Went into labor, and cried out a shout,

The baby was born in branches up high,

Among the leaves so velvety sly,

No longer her family stalked about,

Cursing her spirit, forcing her out,

She was hidden from the people that cry,

She too fell asleep as the wind willows sigh.

Along came a King with power so grand,

With gold and silver pressed into his hand.

Tired he was of the prolonging feast,

The King was a man who was turned to beast.

He thought the king’s life was none but bland,

And came to the place where the tree did stand,

The vines formed a wall where the king was peaced,

To lie down for good he cared not the least.

Thunder, lightning, and storm did roar,

Cold winds rushed on from withered shores,

Sun beat the ground mercilessly,

Fire consumed all and left dust to see,

From the sky above the rain did pour,

But the truth be told, none did score,

The tired souls slept peacefully,

Under the shade of the Wisteria tree.