A dark, rainy window with the silhouette of a flower against it
Olivia Arthur / Magnum


A poem for Wednesday

Overwatered the fire lilies.  
Underwatered the aloe.
Prayed to the sun god
to dispel my gloom.
Bought perlite and peat moss.
Made cuttings out of dahlia,
aster, gardenia, begonia, rose.
Charged crystals in the moon.
Claimed knowledge panels.
Accessed several past lives.
Testified to my greenery
of vistas yet unknown.
Drank vinegar.
Ate seldomly.
Consulted no one
except those the
spirit guides approved.
Was stringent, exacting.
Practiced loving action.
Rode my bike through
abandoned streets that
led to stately mansions
with automated sprinklers
misting trees from Brazil.
Spoke candidly in private;
was speechless in public.
A return to civilian life
without halo or word.
Formed energy grids.
Awoke Kundalini.
Sought true friends,
not those whom ego
or mere habit serves.
All this time my mother
lay dying in hospice, alone.
Held her paper-thin hand.
Rubbed her feet with oils.
Kissed her ancient forehead.
Embraced her body of bone.