Show me a plant
that’s not in search
of a pot,
that knows
whether it’s meant
for orchard,
rainforest,
or jam jar,
that knows, for that matter,
if it’s a creeper,
conifer,
or just an upstart crocus
too big for its boots.
You’d think it would get clearer with time.
It doesn’t.
And before you know it
you have yet another potted palm
with a raging heart
of Himalayan pine.
Or just an old banyan
asking to be
a little less ancient,
a little less universal,
a little less absolute,
a little more bloody
bonsai.