i didn’t think much of it
just poured what was left in the glass
onto that dusty stem
that hadn’t bloomed in two years

it leaned, tired
like it had decided silence
was easier than trying again

i wiped the leaves with my shirt
told it,
“you still here, huh?”
and went on making coffee

by the time i came back
one leaf had straightened itself
like somebody remembered
how to stand

i don’t know what to call that
miracle, mistake,
or maybe just faith
that refused to resign

either way
i left the window open that day,
and the wind came in,
smelling of unborn rain,
saying everything i couldn’t
anymore

a note

all i wanted to say was this is yet another poem, or maybe yet another paragraph pretending to be yet another poem. i don’t know. what i do know is poetry is the hardest thing that ever can be (until i learn how to play a violin). every word here feels like it costs a million bucks. if a picture is worth a thousand words, then in a poem, i think a single word has to be worth a thousand pictures.

this one took me longer than i expected, and even now i don’t think it’s finished. maybe poems never are. maybe they just stop themselves somewhere.

if you guessed it right, this isn’t about the plant, or the watering person, or even the coffee. i was trying to see if i could write something that carried a subtext while, on the surface, it stayed about a mundane, everyday thing.

so yes, it’s a selfish act. one person, one plant. but maybe that’s how bigger things begin. i wanted to believe in something that still had a little green left in it.