Alina Kalontarov

Existential as a polka dot begonia

I brought home a hole
punched plant. Small marvel
of chlorophyll and white space. 
It defies logic, how a thing
intent on surviving 
can forego pieces of itself. 
Haven’t I spent my life
in upright wonder,
winged and waiting 
on a windowsill?
I’ve swallowed the light
of every silver moon. 
There are gaps
in my understanding.

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