the garden that's me

The fern died again

The one in the Prussian-blue planter on

the back terrace—

apace with the succulents and

abalone shells—

the one that’s so eager to sip in shadows but 

requires more sun than either one of us ever

remembers

How many times will she let me

resuscitate those delicate, wafery leaves?

I should water her more often

I think my thumb could be green,

and that if it was,

my heart might follow—

but my thoughts are a pan of

fool’s gold among rocks:

and,

it’s never been my heart

or my thumb

that I struggle with

And if I wasn’t so distracted with the

early morning—

with the quiet,

and the coffee,

and the string of poetic reflections who all

claim to be my prolific darlings and

lovers—

perhaps I could tend to this rooted,

gentle organism more reliably

Maybe I’d get some practice being

what I really want to be:

a mother

I do not know why 3 am calls to me, nor why

I was born like this—

to rise and fall with the moon’s

odd schedule—her mystery

But,

I am partial the waning and waxing (that is)

her silvery nature

I am never full for more than a day at a time—

will I ever be?

What would it take to become a whole puzzle—

to be beautifully complete but still

keep my intricate pieces?

What would it feel like to not have to tiptoe

on eggshells

around the unassailable castle walls that

have become my own daydreams—far-reached?

My thoughts are the plucked petals of

roses, strewn across the aisle at a wedding with no one approaching

the alter—

burgeoned and ruined for nothing

What would it take to fall in love with and consign to myself—

to show up with water, earth, and a single bottle of

sunshine...

to sacrifice just a small slice of that

hypnotic rapture of

the morning—

my ego

and my phantom-self’s

showcasing hour—

to ensure that she has the right elements to grow?

I think all parts of me must be beautiful in their own right

(somehow),

they're just never in season during

the same breath

of time

Yet,

sometimes I think that if I could keep the fern alive for more than a week,

or even a weekend, maybe,

I'd nurture the garden that's me

*

-Gina C. 🧚‍♀️✨