Survival

I water them from a measuring cup, or mug, or ladle,

Or anything cuppish I’ve nabbed off the dish rack,

Deemed clean enough,

And filled from the calcium-crusted faucet.

I rotate each a little each

Time I happen to remember,

Twinged most often

By cricks in their green, inclining necks.

The African violet shed blossoms long ago.

Grimly assessing the situation,

It weighed what gains may be made

By flowers versus leaves.

The succulent, meanwhile, thickens on,

Reddens slightly, and stolidly grows;

The plants that were its fellows in the cigar box

Packed with dirt too often dry,

Died, too timid to watch it triumph.

I crack the blinds for these two.

They eat the sun.