I surrender to the slowness of a day
press my face into the scent of things
I would normally rush by. The leaf of a fig,
the flutter of a moth disturbed on my skin.
There isn’t much to remember about this day:
insistent showers, the cancellation of plans,
a lack of energy from the beating outside.
But at least the humidity will keep
my sweet peas alive. Even after shoots were dropped
as the pot slipped onto grass through muddy fingers,
and white tendrils tangled in a mesh of green.
I dug a hole. Gently scooped in cupped hands
a maze of dirt and fronds. Tied their limp threads
with bamboo to a sheet of lattice against the grey shed.
Tomorrow after a recalculation of distance from the sun,
they will puff out, lean into the climb, and learn to go it
alone.
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