My pothos is planted in a pot

Barely big enough but

Almost too tall—the tips

Of the leaves lace the lip

And do not dare overflow.

 

It sits in the center of a side table.

Two lamps tower on either side,

A gold-rimmed mirror engulfs the wall

Behind the space I had envisioned

A waterfall of pothos vines, entwined.

 

There are none.

 

Three long months and it has filled

The space with no more and no less

Then it started—green, still, it lives.

I prune and water inconsistently

With no sign of decay, and yet

 

Still no growth.

 

I might think it mocks, but it acts more like

A young child—insecure, unsure.

My affections influenced by schedule are

Reactionary at best; “I’m sorry” follows

Outbursts of anger and frustration.

 

I scoop up my pothos and submerge it in

Water—a new trick I just learned to keep it

Fed. Drown it? Maybe just a little.

The air bubbles up and my anxiety

Pops with each burst.

 

Peering close I spy tiny shoots.

New roots, perhaps, maybe just forming.

I put it back in its spot.

It looks the same, but maybe not

Tomorrow.

 

Thank God I’m not the gardener.

 

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