When I was little-little an uncle-ish guy
squeezed a fistful of cellophane in one hand,
faked sun and rain with the other, open palm
to a big bloom of crinkled finger-sprinkled fun.
Such silliness now, there’s no time, but today
my birthday gift: a Calandiva. I speak its name
off the label, linger on the sounds of each vowel,
like blooming itself, the sounds abscond, ascend!
In the word is also diva and the irony: Calandiva
needs little, minimal care required for all that splash
of peachy rosettes, clustered close, at home in mine
to abide. Here enthroned on some sticky countertop,
she’s my advisor: Indirect light will do, filtered light
just fine. Calandiva knows me, won’t demand more,
between waterings, is still very much herself here.
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