The life & death of plants (trigger warning: other people's poetry)

I germinate the idea of a tattoo:
A vine and leaves uncurl, push out inked tendrils 
across the wing of my shoulder blade,
Quietly sprouting, ripening, fading, 
Extend green shoots of fertility and decay. 
Verdure has a doomed, unfolding richness,
And the first shoots of life are also funeral flowers.
Morbid, sentimental harlot. I think: I am growing and dying, loving and grieving. If my tattoo made music it would be Eric Satie. I listened to Gnossiennes on a snow day in February when I realised that I loved Virgil.