Schefflera, set on the shelf, rooted and dry, flourishes.
Persistent plant, your mother was an office sentinel
posted in the corner, leathery green undusted and ignored,
witness to private conversations, fiduciary stratagems, spreadsheets,
a corporate spy, silent and unseen. She was left when the occupant
changed jobs and moved buildings. We remnants took cuttings home.
You are in the bathroom, bold and bushy, watered sometimes,
the watcher of the bath.
Your children, whim-cut on weekends, sprout quickly, transplant
easily, burst young six-leaves within days of meeting soil.
You’re at least sixteen by now, you’ll be driving soon.
The rosemary I placed in the kitchen window last week, with sweet nothings
whispered, in hopes of focaccia and potatoes, watered with exacting concern,
is brown and needle-curled, bound for compost.
Na/Glo PoWriMo Day 4 challenges us to write a poem that explores sadness via simplicity. My kitchen window box is death to rosemary – I’ve tried multiple times – but my scheffleras go on, and on and on.