Fifteen years ago you were a gift.
I was living between between blue walls
watching the tulip tree outside the window
open its orange hands.
You are good like that tree, even if
you don’t have bright flowers and
you’re not nearly as tall.
I forget to water you, but you forgive me.
And when the cat came and
gnawed at your arms, I was worried
about you, my voiceless one.
I thought you would die, like the person
who brought you.
But you curled your waxed tongues.
You dug into the dirt below.
You sucked sunlight from all around your body.
Up on your refrigerator throne, you prove
that living isn’t much more than patience,
standing up, bending down.