instead of flowers I got seeds
without pots, soil, or light.
I set aside money, bought a garret:
the sun lit up the windowsill,
left the rest of the room dark.
I found help online:
unwittingly I found myself in a community of gardeners.
standing in line once, talking,
I was accused of carelessness,
as I was smoking, and with flowers nearby!
I'm not smoking, only
smog has crept through the window
and flutters its wings.
months later, I've emerged from the shadows
and just now have noticed
the sun lights up more than the windowsill,
and in the flowerpot the lemons are bursting with juice.
Author's comments:
I wrote this poem in a smoky room on one of those evenings when you look in vain for the light and hold on to the one bright spot in whichever corner with the hope that it will get bigger. The words of Greg Dulli's song came to me: "Step into the light, baby." And so, through the music and the haze, with feet dirty from the soil, I stepped into the light. Sosnowski wrote, “A poem leaves the house and never returns.” Read this one, and then create your own story.
