Green Man

by Paul Matthews

We have hung the Green Man
on a nail behind the shrubbery,

and though it seems only
a likeness stamped on a tile

the look that he gives says
twine all that you are
into every frond of the garden.

His apple tree is in bloom.
Not a petal has fallen.

But who could befriend him?
He lies in the dirt. The crown

of his handiwork a graveyard
where roses run wild