I wandered by the old stone road
where the basil and lilac grows,
until I passed a crooked stick,
which warped by rain and wrapped round air,
sat twisted in the milky grass
at angle with the straight green blades
and stripped of all its bark.
It was like unto a serpent
yet its curves had harsher corners
and its fangs lined its body’s length,
thorns that thirsted for dirt.
Its color was brown like a snake
any flowers faded long past
like petals in the breeze.
Yet no snake could be so brazen
sitting where all insects could see,
caught in the open, off the road.
a stick with sharp thorns, an arched back,
alone in a field with the smell
of herbs blowing in the spring breeze
it must be just a stick.