CLOCKWISE– A TWO MINUTE POEM

When a houseplant
is hurt
or dies,
I’ve heard
the one
in the next room
grows in
a painful curve
in sympathy,
although
the two,
each unseen by the other
and each separate,
grew. . .

So,
it occurs to me. . .

If a person’s
hurt
or dies,
and we grew from them–
they, our root. . .
though
we may not
see, in the end,
how they’ve been cut
so much
they don’t survive–

might it not stand to reason
that
perhaps,
even well past
their passing season,
we’d fill our lungs
and eyes
in agony. . .

and cry?

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