Sunlight diffused
wearily
across the dusty black table.
Golden dust
swirled lazily down.
Soil and spider web coated
pots of aloe and
sharp tongued mother-in-laws.
Aunt stood
the brittle celluloid watering can
in her hand
prepared to feed the dry ones.
I sat on the front porch swing
finishing orange sherbet
before coming over
to stand.
She held a plastic lid.
“Would you like to see the resurrection fern?”
I had seen it a million times before.
But it would be hours
before Mom would come.
We could bring the dry and brown
to life ever so slowly again.
Awkward baptism
of tendrils tightly bound.
Momentarily fresh again.
We stared so hard
waiting for the sweet surprise.
“Just like Jesus rising from the dead.”
Finding the rolling drops
pooled along the
farthest recesses of its reach.
I turned back to recite
my Bible verses
and dig for snails.
