She grows bristlecone pines

 

She grows bristlecone pines

as house plants, drops little seeds
into paper cups with harsh soil 
from Sierra mountainside,
sunburnt seedlings frosted,
parched, neglected for weeks 
fitting nature’s plan,
her windowsill a forest
growing with the speed 
of centuries.

Her bedroom is cramped. 
She sleeps by the door. 
Her love is prickly, remembers 
wooly mammoths, survived asteroids. 
She gets angry when I suggest orchids.
The landlord wants her out, 
wants to build condos, turns up 
the heat. 

In cups her love grows
for grandchildren to transplant 
to faraway years, to unfriendly soil, 
to ever struggle, never thrive.
Please, may they survive.

……

From my book buck naked is the opposite of hate

First published in Amsterdam Quarterly. Thank you Bryan R Monte, editor
Photo by Rick Goldwaser

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