A poem by Marjorie Thomsen
That loamy smell when watering soil
always makes me feel it’s a good life
and I’d do it all again. His beauty: relish
green and heartleafed. I don’t speak
to it, don’t sing to it and don’t
resent it. Time is perishable
and the plant is near the window—
the neighbor walking her
two young boys to school, my street’s
wild turkeys, my new
husband returning from a run. Caring
for this plant is similar to the way
my friend Amanda tends her tomato
tarts—at times something is off
and she wonders—maybe shit tomatoes?
He hasn’t asked for his plant back
and I don’t offer. Much could be made of this
but instead I praise the light coming in.
Hear Marjorie read her poem:
Marjorie Thomsen loves teaching others how to play with words and live more poetically in the world. Author of the poetry collection, Pretty Things Please (Turning Point, 2016), she has served as a Poet in Residence in New England schools and works as a psychotherapist in the Boston area.
Image: Houseplant by Annie Spratt
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