My balcony cactus sits Alone on a wooden table Far from its natural biome The sand washed dunes Of distant deserts – Instead four stories up And slightly inland Upon the humid, temperate shores Of the muddy Rio de la Plata – I wonder if it feels lonely Out of place Cupped in gaudy orange …
A cactus drank absentmindedly Water pooled on the wooden table Slowly surrendering to evaporation The late afternoon sun Cast long shadows Shadow puppets of trees Buildings a canvas Dancing in the gentle breeze Clouds, once voluminous and threatening Emptied, pass out over the river To repeat the process elsewhere The cactus, full, sighed
There is a cactus that shares a desk with me. Together we watch the rain lashing against the window. The mid afternoon downpour hasn’t lost any of its fury, even after a solid hour. At the base of the window small streams of water trickle in, flow down off the ledge, and down the wall. …