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the clay in which the bougainvillea
grows is sun hard and starting to mold.
grow is an exaggeration and not so much mold
but forming a layer of green algae life
that hints at disease. the leave are an unhealthy
greenish yellow but cling
to spindly branches, blooming to a
timid magenta that barely passes as pink.
we bought this tiny tree together
when you were here and recovering
and keeping alive feels like a heavy vow.
today a giant grasshopper propped
its lanky leg on a languid limb.
other days the butterflies visit,
the nest is gone and the humming birds
are missing in action. what kind of will
is rooted beyond the surface? how our
lives quiver in the darkness in a city
with the moon lurking beyond the buildings.
you are better now and home among the living.
offering advice with a gentle warm smile
as i lay the litany of slights i’m feeling today-
bored in this lengthy bout with perceived calumny.
when i water the bougainvillea a puddle
forms on the clay surface. this can’t be healthy
i muse. but staying alive is often enough.  
it needs a new pot. new soil. expert help.
but what do i know of these things?
what time do i have to mend and heal?
there is a schedule to attend to.
a routine to obey. from where comes
the spark that ignites a change? when did
the awareness to awaken not become enough
to wake up?