Once upon a time
(A story starting like all tales should)
I had the idea
A southern window filled with green life
Most of them the results of my father’s funeral
Pot plants, the funeral director said
not realizing what he was saying.
One by one
Even in the bright light
of that southern window
Victims of a novel
about my father.
Years of not writing
and the greenery has returned
in fine form
here on their own accord, and not because someone died.
They live in different rooms,
some enjoying southern light
while some reach to the east, the west.
(They are leaning a bit, I should spin them)
But it is starting
I see the ominous signs
I don’t know its proper name,
this green thing that is now turning a murky brown
The pot tag says Foilage
I think that means it should be green
But instead of researching its upcoming cause of death
my search history reveals other things
and Annie Dillard quotes
about how writing books is a significant cause of death
for indoor plants.