Taylor Steinberg 

 

The two were root bound—
choking for nutrients, stifling
growth, fighting just to breathe.   

Calloused hands tore at the soil
they shared. Rough at first, jagged
tugging at this broken circulatory.
Then precise, like dividing a piece
of construction paper—hands flat,
guiding them apart at the crease.  

They lay on the turned-over soil
several feet and an Atlantic away,
the limbo of establishing their selves.   

But when the sun peeks through, 
their petals soften as if soothed back
to life. Though their roots now lie
in separate beds, they awaken each
morning to the other’s silent waving.