Imperfect Planting, Perfect Light

I dream I’m holding a potted plant,
an abelia,
dropping its blossoms.

A tiny vacated web
is strung between two leaves.

The plant is stressed,
too long without light.

I carry it from window
to window,
as if to doctors—
a second opinion?
A third?

I find a door,
go outside,
a spring wind
ruffles leaves.
Petals flutter away
like butterflies.

What shall I rescue?
All that’s left, barren stems,
alive, though—
aren’t they?

There’s a spot
in the garden,
I kneel
to dig the soil.

The plant waits.

Across the street,
another woman—
she looks like me.

Holding flowers.

She stands,
head bowed,
drops the flowers
one by one.

She’s wearing black,
like the congregation
with her.

I sense I’m dreaming—
I try to wake
but nothing moves—
I’m stuck in the garden,

I try to pray,
but nothing comes to mind.
I call it prayer
and cry.

It’s then I notice all the plants
have turned
without a word,
to face the light.

…………. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


2 thoughts on “Imperfect Planting, Perfect Light


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