This Little Orchid - Elizabeth Carothers Herron

[Larry Robinson]

 This Little Orchid
 
This little orchid
with its five dark oval leaves hasn’t bloomed 
in years, but once 
 
a week I soak the whole pot the way Cindy told me 
she does her orchids, and so it lives. 
This morning, in a kind of dreamy trance, I lift it 
 
out above the sink, then pour the water over it 
in a wavering ribbon I can see right through. 
How does thought come? Out of its absence 
 
I’m suddenly in mind of Aleppo. This water
would be a miracle there, the last wells bombed, 
the aid convoys blown up before they unload. 
 
Here’s this little orchid with its tender green roots 
like worms humped up and reaching for air 
above the bark, glistening wet, my hands
 
curved around the pot the way they might 
around the seed of a baby unborn. I’d tell it to go back, 
tell it the world is not a safe place, not there – 
 
bloody in the rubble, thirsty and covered with dust. 
Later, unpinning a sheet from the line, I press my face 
to the smell of sun and autumn oak trees, the sheet
 
huge for my queen bed, white as a clean 
bandage, and here they are again, the children,
their lives with me like ghosts or rue.
 
- ​Elizabeth Carothers Herron
 
 


All the suffering in the world comes from seeking pleasure for oneself. All the happiness in the world comes from seeking happiness for others.
   - Shantideva 
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