You named her Sarah. She lived
in the window of my teen-aged
bedroom in a macrame hanger
I made myself.
She was so exotic, so otherworldly,
so stunning in the Mississippi sunlight.
In my twenties, she made the trip to New Orleans
in the back of my orange Datsun,
carefully cushioned for minimum damage,
where she lived for many more years
on the back patio until
the many deluges and unrelenting humidity
finally did her in. That, and my benign neglect.
I’ve missed her all these years but I couldn’t
buy another Sarah. It wouldn’t be the same.
Yesterday, the day before my 60th, I found
a piece of a Sarah under the palm tree
in the yard. Later, more appeared.
I picked them up, gently placed them in
porous soil in a terracotta pot.
A gift from the universe or
a gift from you?
Either way, a tiny miracle.