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
Than 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
Thank God I’m not the gardener.