Most of you have curb appeal You’re lawns, and well maintained Foundation plantings lend design Your annuals well arranged In synchrony you always bloom Within your narrow beds Competing down the walkways and then Judging who grew best Some are more traditional English boxwood, roses red Hedges trimmed in knots or rows And the home displayed instead Some of you are cottage gardens growing as you please And some are simply wildflowers strewn wildly by the breeze Still others are those hothouse orchids Fussy and in charge Erratic if most beautiful Their lives both long and large I, however, am a bonsai Growing slowly in a bowl Just as fussy as an orchid Just as showy as a rose My efforts go into my roots My visage often bare With awkward looking bits of me Sticking out from here or there Place me in an ideal spot And leave me there to grow Return and tend me as I need Then off again you go But do not doubt my qualities Or overlook my cares I'll grow alone, in little space And catch you unawares For I’ll outlast the other plants I’ll outgrow every bowl And when finally I bloom, at last, You’ll tremble in your soul
I actually started writing this years ago. It used to make me feel full of myself. Not anymore. We’re all whatever we are. We can all feel however we feel. Plus, I do love bonsai.
I almost took it up as a hobby, but … guess what? It’s hard. Really hard. Those little plants have very specific needs. And I’m not in a place to devote myself to such particular care.
Of course, I’ll be sharing the link to this over at Phoenix Fire Press, too. I’d love to share a link to a similar poem I’ve written here but, alas, there is none. That’s me; so one of a kind.
Does sarcasm translate well on the page?
However, you can go ahead and visit “The Drive” before I publish it at the end of the month. I might end up editing it one last time—because of course I will—so who knows? This might be your last opportunity to read it in its raw, original form.