Days later and I still wonder why
you failed to mention that its leaves
close at dusk, folding in on itself with
such determined sadness only to rustle
open at the first brush of morning
Or that most people call it a prayer plant
for its nighttime clasped hands
which is beautiful but refutable, given
what I’ve been taught about prayer but
also what I’ve come to understand myself
I wonder if you assumed we knew. Or
if you didn’t know either. It’s hard, not
knowing, but it’s hard knowing
too. Knowing exactly down
to the roots, ensconced in dirt
unencumbered by glossy, impossible
foliage. I wonder if you meant for it
to be a surprise, if you imagined
our bewildered delight. I am infatuated
with the idea that one of these days
I will chance upon the leaves
moving as darkness blooms across
the sky, the definite moment it all
turns, except I have better things to do
than to sit around waiting for something
romantic and delicate to happen
I find myself trying just the same. Hoping
to get the timing right. Hoping to capture
a glimpse of the magic you nurtured
with your bare hands and a reverence
for sun and water, for that lilt in my chest
when a feeling rises up to catch the light
then, as if in the face of glory, recedes.
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