Member Poem

Reading the directions for taking care of a potted plant I find myself wondering if I am not secretly a potted plant myself.
Like the plant, I like to have water regularly, to be kept in bright light but not direct sunlight, to stay between the temperatures of 65 and 75 degrees fahrenheit.
A helpful picture of a plate with spoon and fork has been crossed out which means the plant is not for eating, and I know neither am I.
It’s only the first direction on the list on the plant that gives me pause.
Will rebloom, it says.

Will I rebloom?
Will my flowers return after they’ve wilted and fled from me?
What does it mean to lose my leaves and petals and how do I gain them back again?
I pondered and prayed and for the days, but the question remained just out of reach, flitting beyond my grasp like a hummingbird unable to drink my nectar.

As I was wondering I watched someone beside me rebloom.
I saw the sun slip back onto her leaves and the small greens of promising new life begin as buds on the tips of her stem.
I knew she would grow back again.
The grass seed took root in the back yard and hope took root in her heart.
The frost can threaten to freeze her but it’s only a delay.
I will wait a lifetime if I have to.

So maybe we’re all potted plants in the end.
Not so different, in life or death.
And I can keep reaching and watching and waiting and hoping and knowing that someday soon, we will rebloom.