April 19, 2005
I never found a home for her
last summer.
She lived in temporary quarters:
A cheap, black, twelve inch pot,
sitting inside faux terra cotta.
I had not intended
to put her in the ground,
though I made plans
to bring her inside..
In the midst of madness,
somehow I forgot,
though I passed her everyday
on my way into the house.
Then winter came;
some said it was mild,
but the damp chill ate through
to my bones
(I really must get a transfusion),
and she sat outside
in a black, twelve inch pot
looking quite dead.
More than once,
I decided to end her suffering
tomorrow.
Spring came slowly,
hesitantly,
almost begrudgingly.
One day when
warmth had crept
enough into the world
for me to stand outside
bare-shouldered,
without a shiver,
I noticed her,
and with an air of
melancholy
and maybe a hint of regret,
I resolved to give her
a proper burial
in the dumpster, although
I never found the time,
that day or the next.
A week later,
I returned
to pay last respects
and finally put to rest
a dead and broken
lifeless plant
which no one ever
would have recognized
as Russian Sage..
Except for tiny,
fragrant leaves
sprouting from the union
of her branches.
To think
I might have thrown her out
in the middle of winter.
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