A shabby old woman
grows bristlecone pines
as house plants,
drops little seeds
into paper cups
with harsh soil
from Sierra mountainside.
Sunburnt seedlings frosted, parched,
she neglects for weeks fitting nature’s plan,
her windowsill a forest growing
with the speed of centuries.
Her bedroom is cramped. Her love, prickly.
She remembers wooly mammoths,
survived asteroids. She gets angry
if you suggest orchids. The landlord
wants her out, wants to build condos,
turns up the heat.
In cups her love grows
for grandchildren to transplant
in faraway years, unfriendly soil,
to ever struggle, never thrive.
Please, may they survive.
……
First published in Amsterdam Quarterly. Thank you Bryan R Monte, editor
Photo by Rick Goldwaser
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