Dave Bonta's "Foliage" is a short, strange poem about carrying sorrow and making it look presentable. The speaker says they wear their grief like clothing, trimmed with gold silk. That is a rich, almost decorative image, but it sits uneasily beside what follows. The second comparison, a "worn-out wife" forced to "sneak like a beggar into bed," suggests exhaustion, humiliation, and a loss of dignity. Even in her own home, she has to creep around, as if she no longer has a right to rest.
The last two lines turn bleaker. "It can cost a great deal / just to die" reads as a dry, bitter remark, perhaps about how much effort, expense, or pain even an ending demands. The speaker seems weary and a little ironic, not openly dramatic.
The mood is quiet, tired, and darkly wry. Beauty and shame are mixed together: the sorrow is glittering on the outside and heavy underneath. The title, "Foliage," may hint at something outward and leafy that covers what lies beneath, though the poem leaves that connection open.