Orchids on a Sill

The orchids on my windowsill

Don’t know the world

On the other side of the glass is shattering.

Their velvet, white and purple petals

Don’t know

That outside we can’t touch

The faces of our loved ones.

That I haven’t held the

Hand of the person I love in seven weeks,

But really it feels like seven lifetimes.

My orchids,

So gently unaware

That everyday this week I’ve spent

Twelve hours a day in front of a computer

Sifting through plans and names and stories

Of people who don’t know how they will

Pay rent, keep their lights on, or keep themselves safe.

All I know is that I want to keep them safe.

Safe and nourished like the orchids

On my window sill

So full of blooms that it looks like they

could topple over with joy.

Their roots entangled with each other,

Leaning on the cold and smooth glass,

A comfort for lean times.

Lean times,

Like when all their button blooms dried

And only two bare stick-stems remained.

They lost their color

I almost threw them out.

Instead, with doubt I dug the

Nail of my index finger into the glossy long leaf.

It bled.

Bled enough to keep me from throwing it out.

A sign of life.

Many months later, at their own pace, my orchids are blooming again.

Unaware that outside the world is bleeding.

Holding in their tiny pea-sized blooms

a quiet trust that life will grow again.

I walked by the orchids again this evening.

They laughed at me in their secret delight,

Saying, “We do know. We are leading you into bloom”.