Greenhorn

I'm green and fresh and vegetable.

I've grown but still am, never done.

Don't expect me to know what the tree knows,

don't expect me to understand what it's felt.

When I've yet to bloom any flower,

And still reek of a chlorophyll smell.

Don't ask me to know where the wind goes,

don't ask me to tell what it's seen.

I've yet to be faced by true winter, 

not yet become bistre just green.

Do not expect me to have known,

the answer that hasn't yet seen my head.

For the night-blooming jasmine's response
filled me with nothing but dread.

Lapine, non.