in which minutiae write the day

this is a day of reading: like an envelope, the stapelia opens a flap and a speckled letter

dense with words unfolds one page at a time. clematis quills scrawl an annotated manuscript

around plumeria wood.  i am gathering leaves for mulch, a sign that summer is almost over

at last.  ivy settles in the palm of my hand apparently growing in nothing but fallen debris.

I spot geranium cedric morris raising an unexpected question among ferns. the more

i look, the more the patch writes minutiae. i pause, thinking about small beginnings

while a currawong, high above me in the jacaranda tree, declaims again


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in which plants make their way home

some plants transplant one back to other soil

as if I stood once more on a rocky outcrop

looking down on a dry, dusty veld sprinkled

with the colours of sand and rock, layers of orange-tipped

kalanchoe and bulbine abyssinica turning red

in the long drawn out dusk. But I am in a different place.

I pack a few plants in a plastic bag and amble home

with a brillantaisia bobbing among people like a purple lizard

oblivious to all.


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