Mr. Du Bois' Plants

Plants don’t grow as much as they did back in my days. My days were those that weren’t yours. They are so back in time that they are now jealous backbenchers. For when my plants grew, they plucked tiny bits of my heart as I did when they were grown and fruity and beautiful. Simple fruits. For when water was the most affluent Christmas gift I could purchase as an employer that employed people that settled for affordable nothings and absences as gifts, I gave them my every bit of simplicity. And as sate little puppies, they out-nerved their tails, stair-casing every bit of themselves, en route up, towards the bit of sun I could offer them through my divided bars of sun.

The sun wasn’t a commodity. He was a welcome gift. For as bad at math as I was, I could not fulfill my efforts at organization into tracking my days here. Simply, days went by. Like countless eye-lash come-togethers. And when hopes of giving up were high, reigning drugs, flirting men and women, delectable apples, I shut my senses to everything remotely reminiscent. Ghosts as they are and were, my memories never let go. They haunted. Like Enyd Blytons.

One day, I thudded my shovel into the ground and drew first blood. Along came the fuzzy roots, dangling cotton candies in the air; I licked them invisible and the impossible sugar still stung.

Like bees. Bees that were versatile enough for an entire garden into a bottle of bear-indulgent honey.

Thud thud.

I took them all out and sprung about the snow in sweaty surprise and a song.

They’ll come back when the snow is gone. I hope.

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Plants don’t grow as much as they did back in my days. My days were those that weren’t yours; as backbenchers, we all lied about our home-works while secretly picking the reddest cherry for then-sweethearts.