but i am proud of how it stretches toward the nearly-spring sunlight; adolescent leaves, broad and blooming.
over summer it suffered, shriveled, straggled, browned dry by the spotlight sun, the fishbowl house a magnifying glass, harsh uv blaring down against the mojito-sweet little sprig.
the sun rose and
set and rose
and set again. some days apricot, peach, lilac, cornflower blue skies; on others, burnt persimmon, violet and baby blue, sometimes smeared with oil paint blots of mist. the stripped branches are witch fingers cackling into the fuchsia sky, silhouettes harsh against the setting sun and the ticking clock. the dog next door yaps all day, a beat for her continuous bassline of shallow breathing, punctuated by a sigh or a whimper of lungs punctured, wounded by a fleeting glance. flocks of birds flee as a neighbourhood car revs and squeals. she jumps when doors slam.
my mint plant probably is a metaphor for my mental health
or maybe not
at the very least
it sits in a purple pot, bright contrast against the damp black dirt, and tidy green leaves,
and smells nice when i remember to water it.