My Father is an Overgrown Jungle

my father is an overgrown jungle.
which is to say, his flowers are
tangled in the vines. he is a creeper on dampened acres, underpinned by vestments of blackened earth, and stiffening snow. a feral cornucopia, unmaimed by the jaws of pruning
shears. he's a quicksand swamp,
entrapping me in the mire of tailspin malfunctions.

Ash Slade lives in Wolcott, Connecticut, and has written poetry for seventeen years. Previous publications include pieces in the Trouvaille Review, San Antonio Review, and most recently, The Lincoln Underground. Hobbies include: reading poetry, classic films and folk music.