Depend on the honeysuckle to maintain where others falter . . . You were never afraid of the dark, never afraid of each object resolving itself, vanishing into night's good sleeve, benign magic the world performed for you at sundown. You admired the young shepherdess tending sheep at the base of your lamp, coaxing her flock into evening's invisible pen. You wanted the world quiet. Even then, you looked forward to all things shutting their many mouths, interim in the revolving puzzle of light.
Honeysuckles provide cheap borders, hide chain-link fences.
Won't tuck behind your ear, attract bees bad as marigolds and stand awkwardly in floral arrangements. While not poisonous, the jellied berries can be semi-toxic. Some might not resist the urge to eat them, even after being warned against it . . . Lying in your twin bed, where cartoon figures stare out from the comforter with their medicated expressions, you realize that you're dying, death includes you. Distant relatives, rodents, and now, suddenly, you.