The Bonsai Juniper
I watch the sheffilera push out,
unfolding it’s tiny umbrellas of new growth,
so young they are still tinged ochre and aching for light.
There was a bonsai Juniper tree on the sill last year,
but I left it to you, and it died.
And you, I see, are sleeping,
some mild, soma dream creating creases in your forehead,
sleeping, as if you could escape me there.
The dotted landscape of the other side of day and night
will not protect you.
I have my hand in this soil.
You belong in my house like all the other living things here,
the cockroaches, the dust, the fungus on the bathroom tiles,
all things beloved for their sheer audacity to continue upward,
toward warmer regions.
They have made themselves at home in this atmosphere,
cat and lint alike,
but you sleep on while the parasites devour your spindly branches.
I am the woman who loves you.
Haven’t I cried enough to make you grow?
Push out,
collect over me,
run rampant through my kitchen like the pests.
Wake up now. Wake up.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
poems, commentary, and such
