I am here, you are there.

I am wiping the sweat above my eyebrows, staining my face.

air, stale and

made of silt

none of the plant cared to fit into its pot,

offering not gently, but in anguish, its

thin roots as a sandpaper against the edge.

inspect leaves,

note their wilt.

adding water to the soil helps to pack the surface.

field the grains of earth

into the pot,

even carefully cramming to just barely

level beneath the edge and

deliver to its resting place on the table

;

I am releasing some water from the pail, and it spills—barely soaking.

alone and

made of guilt

in this home

not rebuilt.

again I pack the soil, craving every last cubic unit.

dragging my hand

against a dark dirt, I accidentally reveal too many

roots to the air. I return the soil while still

kindling whatever basin is possible.

still, the plant is too beautiful

to reject or overlook or even repot;

and besides, I cannot help but

look at every lovely leaf in reverie

except to judge solely my stale choice of

room:

oh, too little space,

oh, too densely packed.

maybe I should have chosen a larger pot

.