The Bonsai

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.