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A quarterly international literary journal

My Mother's Plant

/ Poetry /

It tried to die with my mother

whether from neglect or empathy

we’ll never know. My son

the gardener and pessimist

said he’d try his best

but don’t hope too hard

then, sonlike, left

this coast for the other

and left the plant to me.

Well, maybe it knew

it was still among family

and grew and grew and grew

summered on the patio

wintered on the sill

till it is almost a tree

like trees that grow from graves

its roots in my mother’s life

its future, me.


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