They sprout. They bloom.
They carry weight of operative organisms.
They deliver life. Emotion. Fervor.
When bent, they crack.
When neglected, they droop.
When fed, we’re blessed.
They are variant like every strand of hair.
They are textured – rough, smooth, everything between – like history.
They are flagrant like curves of the body.
When cut, they wait.
When squashed, they escape.
When potted, they survive.
When gifted, they die.
I am not.
For what hasn’t killed me, ought to try harder.