I made a mess planting you—
Soil all over my Paris apartment.
I tried to cover the hardwood floor with binbags,
Plunged my fingers deep into the dark wet clods
And churned.
Your seeds were so fragile,
Small and light, destined for the wind.
Carefully, I didn’t bury you too deep.
Together we labored to make sure you grew,
Moving you in and out
Of the strong light.
I fidgeted waiting for your flowers,
They came with salt from my eyes.
One pink delicate, one sultry red.
No flower was more beautiful
Than the one that grew from your body.
Then your trunk thickened,
Like the stem of a field potato.
I looked in horror as the summer heaved
Your leaves with musk and heat.
You stank of greenhouses and farmgirls.
With roots deeper than your leaves,
You gripped and squeezed my soil
For life and water.
I took you to a friend’s for the autumn,
So she could feed you while I galivanted away
To play with microscopes and men.
In a large supermarket bag I carried you
Across town, in and out of the metro,
The farthest you will ever travel,
Stunned as you are,
Stuck in a silver pot.
I ignored you over winter.
There was no windowsill to my life anymore.
A side glance at the square and space
Where you should have been.
Were you cold? I wouldn’t know.
Defeated, dying, you raged,
Until your leaves turned crimson.
Then finally I saw you.
I trimmed your limbs,
Plucked clean the shriveled flowers.
Cut after cut,
I brought you back to life.
With the scarred dignity of a survivor
You look out onto the park now,
That sky you can’t get enough of,
Alive and living.