I’ll never understand

How you could

Nurture a sweet little plant

That wanted to grow

For you —

And for anyone else who happened to walk past it and perhaps notice

Its unfurling lush green leaves,

Its flower buds on the verge of burgeoning beautitude,

Or its tiny yet exquisite existence —

But let it die,

Let it fester,

Instead.

Maybe because it was easier than taking the time to give it water and let the leaves unfurl,

And the blossoms burgeon —

Even if their paroxysms of weeped floral melancholic joy proved too prolific for you to handle

Or arrange.

Instead

Of finding a bowl to contain all of the rapturous blooms and waxy wanton leaves,

You just let it all wither away on the vine.

But please don’t worry your pretty little head —

A botanist found it in your trash,

And noticed one last living emerald tendril of the plant snaking up through its own detritus towards

The sun;

The sun was hiding behind the clouds, but that determined little verdurous filament still crawled its way out of the darkness of the rubbish bin to what little splash of dispersed light it could absorb.

When he saw that it lived and still had life to give,

He scooped it up

And transplanted it,

Like a new heart into a broken bleeding chest that still has living tissue,

Into a bed of fresh fertile soil.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Who’s the botanist, Toots? Eh? And who is the trasher of plants? ***

*** The botanist knows how to grow things back to life. The botanist could be me, or a best friend, or an angel who nurtures and protects and guides — largely unknown and unseen, but felt in every molecule of one’s leaves and stems and veins and roots. The trasher… could be anyone who has left a stain or a bruise. It could be me… also…. Who knows? ***