This poem really did grow out of my attempts to learn how to care for an orchid!
Overfull
She felt empty
but it was a just
a cylindrical hole
the size of a biscuit
or a slice of polenta
covered with
Lambrusco cream
easy to fill with food
or a large bottle cork
like the one she saw
on a friend’s kitchen
cupboard keeping
penne from spilling
to the floor.
Perhaps the empty feeling
meant she was overfull
ready to spill
or sprout roots
like the orchid without
soil.
Fibrous
nearly weightless
water drained through
to the bottom plate.
The only way
she could tell
when to water
was to lift it,
plant and all
from its pot
to see damp mulch
clinging to
a pseudobulb.
Later she knew
she would learn
to water by weight
letting its load
lighten
before filling it up
but until then
she carefully placed it
back in its pot
fitting it
as tight as a cork.
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