Rose of Jericho

Down in a basket near the floor,

under the incense at the rock shop,

Sacred Corner,

I noticed these tumbleweed-looking things,

and I picked one up and read the label:

Rose of Jericho, resurrection plant.

I was mesmerized, and a small one

was less than five bucks,

so I bought it.

I brought it home and submerged it

in a bowl of tepid water.

Two days later, I was back in the shop,

buying another one for myself,

a big one, over seven dollars’ worth

of resurrection in another blue bowl,

and two to give as gifts. Maybe a rock or two as well.

The brown ball of twigs absorbs

the elixir of life and sighs,

unfurling desiccated, sepia-toned fronds,

the plant relaxing into life

with an almost undetectable patience,

an ease of being similar to a cat

stretching out of a nap to lick a paw,

saying:

I am here. I am life.