Mimosa Pudica
She chose me, plucked me from the garden she
knew all too well. And the azaleas and daffodils bowed and gave way as she
breezed past the thorned roses planted by past lovers and she
ignored the pink carnations that were her mother’s and she
had let them wilt a little. So of course, the garden ruminated as she
passed them by once more—perhaps the marigolds had caught her eye.
Maybe it’s the orchids and the lilies, I offered, the daisies and the lilacs that she
let blossom so now the petals can reach to kiss morning dew upon the knees of her jeans. But she
wore shorts this morning, and the sun dried the dew from her skin as it would dry any tear she
ever shed in this slice of Eden.
Then she touched me. She
touched me not the peonies or the petunias, the periwinkles or the poppies. She
touched me and my leaves curled and closed two by two. And she
did not jump nor startle, no. She
did not look to touch the outstretched iris and lavender, instead she
softened her touch, cupped her palm around me. She protected me.
She brought me home.
The vase she bought for me was overflowing with her fresh water,
and when she set me down in it, I drank until my leaves unfurled.