Green History

The hoya is blooming again.

Every year it flowers a firework of pink stars, 
sticky nectar,

relentless

until the table beneath it is tacky-sweet.

Can you believe
it is nearly 40 now?

A clipping of a clipping
of a clipping
(a daughter of a daughter
of a daughter)

that was as large as a wildfire and 
perched on a high shelf,
an emerald phoenix.

This green history,
it watched:

a quiet girl writing a book report in front of the fireplace,
and shivering children trailing snow through the sliding doors,
and the chipmunk they chased out before the cats could find it.

It heard the slamming door
and the telephone ringing quietly down the hall.

It was there when the glasses were raised
and the curtains were drawn.

It held its breath for 

the wedding,
and the wake.

And it blooms,

relentless.