Bonsai
Now she's gone to higher places
and left the chair where she once sat,
the fireman calendar that someone gave her
and the bonsai plum in its pot for someone else to water.
It's evening, I'm late, I'm left behind,
all the more to sense her absence and all she did,
the justice of promotion,
for which she may thank me.
Wow! The prejudice she faced,
because she was a foreigner,
a lesbian,
an amputee - as if that mattered.
She was capable, the best we had -
her paper clips and envelopes in place,
her hours over a hot photocopier,
the watered plants.
The bonsai. They are so hard to keep alive,
but astounding that their DNA seems to know
the available space, how cells divide
the right amount, no more
and still keep leaf and stem just perfect.
It's funny when you plant them out
how some are stunted,
too late, too tired, too old for proper fruit,
and others grow - in weeks you see the difference -
leaves like sheets, in decent soil at last, outside,
the plum tree for instance that stands
beyond my kitchen window
blocking my light,
the flower bed from my neighbour's gaze.
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