by Kendra Whitfield
This week my world is tiny
Restricted to the path between
the bed and the coffeemaker,
the recliner and the fireplace
I don’t need food,
only light
When depression hits, I become a plant.
No.
One of those stones that mysteriously
glide across deserts, leaving
smooth tracks in the sand behind them.
What I mean to say is:
my brain is a gritty mess.
It needs tending:
a soft white cloth to
swab its tender folds,
a mister full of amino acids and hope
to lubricate the cracks,
gentle hands to massage
light into the dark areas,
to make them shine
I read once that orchid leaves
gleam when they're polished with banana peels.
Maybe I need more
potassium.
What I really need is to tend my own garden
the one I replaces with rocks to prevent weeds
Now I want flowers but
I don't know how to grow them
anymore.
***
Kendra Whitfield lives and writes at the southern edge of the northern boreal forest. Her works have been anthologized by Community Building Art Works and Beyond the Veil Press. When not writing, she can be found swimming laps at the local pool or basking in sunbeams on her back deck.
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