Mad at work

I am mad at work anger tangled
like the pot-bound roots of my
Peace Lily I am reluctant to
transplant she sits in a perfect
red ceramic pot she flowers
when she isn’t on the deck blending
with the begonias she rests
on my writing table there I stare
at her and listen to her breathe
my carbon dioxide which comes
in huffs today
and feels like
until at last I push pen to paper
and the flow releases knots into
soft loops that gradually end with a

I dug the dying hosta with her
curling yellow leaves, chopped
between her green stems deep
into the clumped roots axing her
into small pieces. I planted her baby
hostas in cherry tree shade, in a
new family. They grew into blue-green
corduroy spades. I gave one to a friend
and she planted the baby high in
rocky hills overlooking a green lake
far away from my home.



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