The gerbera daisy that I had planted in an old green ceramic pitcher on my back porch isn’t red anymore. In fact, the red bloom shriveled and fell off weeks ago. But the stem and the leaves that were left behind, now they have died too. At least that’s my initial diagnosis. With my plastic watering can in tow, I tried to revive it this morning, sprinkling a little life onto the dirt in the form of water, tucking in the thin brown leaves when the stems I pulled on wouldn’t give way.
I repeated this kindness again and again — to the potted geraniums that still had plenty of life and just needed a good pruning, to the impatiens that sat shriveled in the mulch, their chunky stems growing translucent in the stress of the drought, to the kale that hardly seemed to notice it’s been dry. I filled my can, struggling when the fullness made it heavy, easing as I emptied it again and again on the thirsty plants that I used to call a garden.
:: CONTINUE READING ::
Today I am over at TweetSpeak Poetry, sharing a post I wrote when the drought seemed like it would go on forever. Thankfully, since I wrote this, we’ve had a little more than two inches of rain. It’s not enough, but it helped.
Photo by Hey Pictures. Creative Commons, via Flickr.