Where the Mullein Grows

Where the Mullein Grows

I walked outside to see the woods today,
Through un-shoveled paths of virgin snow,
And reached a creek across which there lay
An ice-bridge to where the mullein grows.

Ah! Where the mullein grows—or should I say grew?
For now it is brown, and crumbles to dust
When I clasp my hand around the stem—like you
Gently held mine—now a withered husk.

Just months prior it stood verdant and proud,
When I showed you the leaves of velvet,
And brewed you tea: medicine to uncloud
The approaching thunderstorm of regret

Life comes in cycles that vary with time:
One day we’ll exchange our mullein for pine,
Until then I’d just like for you to know
It isn’t your touch, but the seeds that you sow.