To My Plants

You came to my doorstep

on a rainy day,

sealed in a black box,

having suffered

a severe lack of sunlight,

all the potholes

on Massachusetts roads,

and the gentle manhandling

of FedEx drivers

from being in transit for days.

When I cut the tape

and tried to pull you

out of the box,

you came out

upside down,

and half of the soil

you call home

spilled all over the floor.

I saved what I could,

vacuumed the rest

and dumped it in the trash,

along with all your limbs

that had dried out,

that I had cut off.

I left you in an

inconspicuous corner,

and for ten days,

you looked sad because

the days stayed cloudy

and the nights stayed cold,

while my window also faces north.

And the sun,

probably still savoring

his morning depression,

refused to leave his covers,

pull open the curtains,

and beam to the world

outside his window.

When the sun

finally found his alarm clock

and decided to wake up

on time,

I almost thought

he didn’t stop by

in time,

for your limbs drooped

and your hair grew flimsy.

I opened the window

just to let in some fresh,

spring air that carried

all the warmth of sunlight

with it;

I hoped the warmth

was all you

needed.

You breathed and bathed

for only a few hours -

and when I woke up the next day

to check on you,

you stood taller than

I ever thought you could.

Sometimes,

on days that are rainy,

I also wonder

if a few hours outside

and a little bit of sun

is all I need.