The Taste of Young

Succulents are a freak of nature.
Come here, boy. Let me tell you
about real plants, waving, twining,
root deep, reach-for-the-stars frond tips.
They'll change your skinny life.
Come, boy, down to the hardwoods
wearing their summer green.
Slip yourself through the tangle of underbrush,
damp leaves clotting at your feet,
the mulch of death sucking you into its soothing bed.
Follow the stream to the west end,
where the poplars thin
and the sun begins to spread its skirt
over the fattened ground. Never mind
the thorns; the vines are not confused.
They know exactly how to please you
with their blackish seeds.
Purple your mouth here, boy.
Stain your white hands.
Color your whiskerless chin dark and dark
until you understand the taste of young.
You'll find no fat-leaved, hunched-to-the-ground
thirsters here. It's all in the rain, boy.
All in the cold, driving rain.