leaves from the African violet
have fallen limp across the edge
of the pot— But feed it too much
water and it could drown inside
its own cells. Too much sorrow,
too much joy, and it’s as if time
saws one off one more limb
in the unseen canopy. Sometimes
you don’t know exactly where a storm
is passing, only hear the deep
bassoon in the grey distance,
while the heart floats like a pickle
in the juice of its own fears.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.