my plant song man

my plant song man

frog thumb prophet I am grateful.
if it were not for your level-eye,
shrugged shoulders of action,
I would be surrounded by the pale
stalks of my transgressions.

you don’t get taken in by my verbiage of,
the houseplants are stable, ie:
in a state where they do not wilt or rot,
beyond need for misting or watering,
a dusting if you must be particular
about appearances.

you do not chastise but gaze with slight
private smiled head-shake of kindness,
wordlessly replenish the clay
with hungry roots you pay for
out of pocket, energy, time

each of your visits is rain

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Part of Ringing of the Bards XIV

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