Mountain laurel crushed beneath feet,

Petals scattered like lost innocence,

A beauty fragile and ephemeral,

Stems cruelly detached from blooms,

Strewn like dashed hopes

Or a sash wrenched aside and soiled, 

Trampled and tossed

Beyond the path,

Decorating the dirt floor

With their sullied splendor,

Decayed at the coming of age,

Seeding the ground with

Future generations of belles,

Blush-hued looks passed down,

Along with the toxins that run

In their floral bloodlines,

Poisonous to men.

When left alone,

Laurel does not wither, but

Pollinates itself,

That fabled mountain ingenuity

Issuing the next line of progeny.

Be careful what you pluck:

What does not shrivel survives.