Office Cactus
How long will I wait
For the cactus.
Why?
Because I made the mistake
Within the mistake of
Waiting too long.
“It looks pretty dead,” Dad says when I put it in my window.
And I know he’s right.
But, at least its in real sunlight now.
Before it only soaked in fluorescent beams.
Maybe, that makes a difference.
Going back to basic ingredients
Like sun.
Like water.
How long. Should I wait
For the rain?
Why?
Because it’s really the water that waits
To drain,
Or, maybe be drawn back up
By the cactus.
“I think it’s still alive,” there’s a question in my statement.
“Why?”
“There’s some green. It’s bigger. One piece. It’s thicker.”
“Did you water it?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time?”
“Yesterday?”
“Don’t water it anymore.”
I won’t admit to the prodding and testing and watering often.
“But, I wanted to give it a head start.”
“Set it outside. The next time it rains, that’ll be enough.”
How long can I wait
For old, or new.
Why?
Because I turn the clay bird planter
For the underside of brown
Within the white
Black beneath green.
Even as I type, I’m trying to fix things too fast.
It means I make more mistakes within the mistakes.
I relive the first trip to the office,
For the first time in five months.
Scratch. I carry the cactus and loose leaf sheets home.
Paper thin tendrils, blank paper.
How long will I wait
For the cactus.
Why?
I stare at a computer screen.
Daily.
I examine the cactus leaves.
All the blankness in the smoothness.
It should be bumpy, full, prickly even.
But, nothing’s close enough to touch.
I’m safe. Protected. Restricted in what I can give.
I wanted to find the cactus alive,
After all the time I worried about its life.
It was given to me for its resilience.
I wonder if the rotting is death,
Or, simply letting go.