Botany

A young man

wearing a construction hardhat,

flourescent yellow vest,

mud-caked jeans and boots,

sat next to me on the bus,

cradling in his hands a

flower

in a small green plastic cube

filled with black soil.

The buds had not opened

but the leaves were bright,

healthy green.

I could tell from his face,

from his posture,

that he was exhausted,

but he held the plant

gently in his hands

like it was an injured bird.

What kind of flower is it, I asked,

and he grinned sheepishly

and said, I don't know, Someone

just gave it to me.

And I thought back to the last time

I bought someone flowers,

and how, in the end, it had been

useless, and how

maybe

I should have known that giving

something that has been cut off

from its roots and severed from its soil

can only commemorate decay;

and if I really had desired to say

something about the life I wanted,

I should have, like this stranger's someone,

given a living thing

still closed up to the light,

but waiting to unfold,

embedded in rich earth.