Blossoms

Stranded cyclamen
Alone in an empty break room
Withering without the sun’s attention
Desperately longs for the rain
As it wills its dead branches into the air
Like Atlas with only memories to uphold

Then one day a young woman finds it there
And identifies with its brave attempt to live
Bereft of the things that would make it flourish
She stares at it long and hard
Selecting which stems to prune
Understanding where the blooms should spring

Water succulently penetrates its way down
Into the comforting solace of the soil
Now damp and nurturing
A safe haven of growth and new life
Leeches its way into the foundation
Of the dreary plant now quenched

The young woman draws the cyclamen to her
Caressing its leaves with hushed murmurs of affection
As she gently places it in the sun
Whose benevolent shining rays
Succor the plant into a bountiful display
As lush fullness enraptures the simple plastic pot

She is happy for her cyclamen
Grateful for the sun that shines on them both
She in her chair; the plant on the sill
With nothing but a simple reliance on each other
The cyclamen depending on her for life
As she relies on tending it.