What You Sow

The orchid died

from long absence,

but the avocado you planted

from seed, mere stalk, bereft

of leaves when we left,

blossomed like a memory

of the avocado tree you grew

a decade ago. You started it

with toothpicks in a tumbler

of tap water, waited for its

spidery roots, plunged

your calloused hands into clean

soil, planted and replanted

as it grew and grew,

its canopy of green

scraping the ceiling,

until finally it could grow

no more, and it grew

root-bound, slowly

withered and died. I will try

to keep this fledgling

echo of the past alive, this thing

that grew in neglect,

I will try not to kill

with love. Each time

I water it, I think of your hands

making a hollow

for the seed, your hope

that the past could be undone

in the future. I envy this

tenacious plant because it knows

nothing of sorrow,

how it unpetals a person,

brutal, like scissors, but slower,

like how the O in widow

unfurls into moan . . .