I planted you long ago when the soil was fertile and soft,
And perfect for you to grow—to flourish—and then tower before me.
When months passed with no sign of you I became disheartened,
Because the package you came in promised you would come.
After six weeks of watering, maintenance and affection
I expected you to be here.
Ever so often, I’d press my ear to the ground to hear if you were growing below
But I never heard a thing.
It took two years for me to let you go and consider planting another,
But suddenly I didn’t want to anymore,
So instead, I built a house—
Overtop the garden—the spot—
Where I planted you.
In the summertime when the sun was hot
And brought along a drought,
I was grateful; because that year I never planted a garden,
Instead I renovated my house,
Mosaic tiled the floors and painted the walls.
I was so proud,
So content with my projects and with myself that I finally forgot about you.
One night, I was awoken by a glass falling to the ground.
Someone must have broken in.
I grabbed my baseball bat and tiptoed to the kitchen,
But when I got there the room was empty and there were shards on the ground.
I placed the large pieces into a bag then swept the small ones into a dust pan.
Then I noticed a crack.
And there you were,
Growing through the tiles when you had been forgotten.
In a month, you were a tree, and your branches broke my windows.
In a year, you were a tower, and your roots destroyed my plumbing.
Now, you’re a menace, and your leaves make me itchy.
When I planted you, watered you, loved you, you never came.
Then I ploughed you, starved you and forgot you, you tore through the ground.
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