Potted

a yellow basket of loose strife overlooks the ivy and ficus

with abundant breadth and good grace, a water bog

of a plant I’m told. I’m potted in my own way,

replenished by tough tissues of petal-weave

hardy enough to last. They loop around

my meadowpatch,  catching my stagnant

thought-pool where reflections hardly stir.

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

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