a Christmas cactus with green and wine leaves blossoming out of season, reaching yellow fleshy buds into this old building's moldy air,
and a languishing African violet twice repotted and currently sagging like a senior student on the verge of graduating into universal uncertainty.
A half full bag of soil sits on the bookshelf next to a stack of paperback mysteries, and empty pots act as haphazard bookstops, vaguely clotted with the dessicated blood of long lost supermarket siblings, those trailing vines with spade shaped leaves spotted yellow, evoking nothing so much as deep south kudzu, and begging the question: how is it that I can kill the unkillable?
Two potted plants struggle to maintain their roots, to find a way to thrive despite me. Their silent fight contains the threat of resurrection, signs of nature's resilience in the face of our empty business and strife.
