I Tell Them

My plants have been neglected
though not in the usual way,
for I am diligent in my watering,
providing not too little nor
too much. And the sunlight
usually covers them gently,
kissing arms and necks and
elbows equally although some,
when I forget them outside, are
more fragile, susceptible to
crisply drying out than
others and consequentially
have sunspots on their leaves
when I forget that heat
–this July and August’s recipe for
laughter and music when
lemonade and carwashes
and bare feet feel like
the right things to do–
are too much for some and fine
for others, but
I am less hurried now,
attentive to the plants’ quiet
whispers of need,
what food will enrich their soil,
how much space do they need
(are they too crowded in
their potted homes?) and
I tell them I am back
from my journey of
distraction, though my home
displacement is still deep
within me, and my left
shoulder aches from
the strain of lifting
boxes from the garage
to each new room,
and thank them for their
patience with me,
asking forgiveness, my
impatience for a life of
feeling settled and
rooted in what is good
and soul-nutritious and wild.