Stones and beeswax on a quite pretty table, all the hurts and haunts pressing. But there are plum blossoms blooming on my windowsill, and they, even, were pruned. They were cut off because they were not the Best For the Tree, and here they are blooming in a small blue cup with a little water. And the cup is broken, too, it’s an accidental vase. It still has its white patches without glaze where the handle fell off, but I just turned it around.
They bloomed while I was away. I left them greening and stretching, and I looked at them every day. I leaned over all my books and made sure they were not thirsty. It was even hard to see, because their little cup is blue, and you know so is water. But then I went away, and when I did not look at them they opened. So when I came back it was just a little thing, it was all theirs. It didn’t take my proud look for every each petal to be a miracle of spring.
But I rescued you, didn’t I? I picked you up and chose you so especially based on the size of your cup and the size of my windowsill and your perfect asymmetry I thought was most reverent but Not Too Proper. I quickly with sneaking smile copied nature, I brought awe inside and articulated it, didn’t I?
I wonder if I will notice each one wilting.
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