wishy washing around ocean breezes.

Patches of cool shade

covering the green blazer of earth.

I stare for hours

at the one perfect orchid

spat from the side of a palm.

I am part of the garden.

Hinted only by the twirl of smoke

sliding up through air,

even the bugs think I’m plant.

They stop, rest on my leg,

Searching for nectar.

Occasionally I feel like a weed,

pulling some precious nutrient away.

Injecting fetid compost in its place.

Turning green into brown,

drying up the cool soil

to reflect my soul.

Sometimes I feel like fertilizer,

flowing through stems and branches.

Filling the place with light,

An image of lushness.

My smoke flutter/squirts away,

And I notice the sky isn’t as blue as it used to be.

I’m just another plant

Rooted to my spot.