~FRANNIE LINDSAY~

KEEPING A TROPICAL PLANT ALIVE IN THE NORTH

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In I come with my watering tin
and this morning’s mutter, ten pudgy fingers
prying your moss.
  
The best soil is stubborn, good roots grip
their dark. What do I know
  
of warm rain’s chant in the afternoon, of bright
shallow boats dragged high
on a beach? In the shade of your dying,
  
all things tend themselves:
six huge boys lope home from detention;
  
the same woman draped in her backwards coat
falls asleep on the 86 bus;
  
northern birds flood the old, stony sky. The worlds
that need to end today are ending. What else
can I do for you:
  
pinch off your just-browned leaves, turn
the side you tilt toward me
back into the light.

 
 

© by Frannie Lindsay