Tag: cactus

That year I discovered the virtues
of plants as companions: they don’t
argue, they don’t ask for much,
they don’t stay out until 3:00 A.M., then
lie to you about where they’ve been….

I can’t summon the ambition
to repot this grape ivy, of this sad
old cactus, or even to move them out
onto the porch for the summer,
where their lives would certainly
improve. I give them
a grudging dash of water – that’s all
they get. I wonder if they suspect
that like Hamlet I rehearse murder
all hours of the day and night,
considering the town dump
and compost pile as possible graves….

The truth is that if I permit them
to live, they will go on giving
alms to the poor: sweet air, miraculous
flowers, the example of persistence.
~Jane Kenyon “Killing the Plants” from The Boat of Quiet Hours

During my dorm-room years
and city apartment dwelling days,
this farm girl had to reconcile
that no pets were allowed,
so I surrounded myself with an indoor garden,
every square inch of window sill
occupied by a living thing
whose survival depended only partially on me.

Those plants sustained me,
cheered me, moved me,
carried by me to new windows
with better light and grander views.

Despite my occasional neglect,
they usually persisted, often thrived,
and gave back to my shriveled city spirit
far beyond any water or repotting I offered.

A start from my grandmother’s old fern
divided decades earlier from her cousin’s plant,
originally a start from a long-passed auntie,
this 100 year old fern traveled far and wide with me
until it dried up, turned brown and gave up the ghost.

Having given a start to my sister years before,
she divided it so the fern came back home
staying happily green in my kitchen window.

Somehow these miracles in chlorophyll
knew just what I needed when I needed it:
they fed me when I was starving
for something alive,
something beautiful,
something that knew exactly what to do
and what to become
when I had no clue what would happen next.