Indigenous to the scurry of kosa dogwood crowds

I follow the seasonal trends and wear maroon,

yet I suck deadly like a Jerusalem cherry among

bleached white prefigured flowers

I stand among them, a curly grass fern

scarcely stumbled upon, but keenly observed when found.

My head, a hive swarming with the rustle of untied whispers, hangs

a pink lady slipper.

Following the cracks cutting cement

to shake teeming limbs,

I sear and curdle unfortunate passers by

like a stinging nettle.

I am the bastard plant from hell.