Succulent

What plagued me in the plague year:
what life burns within me,

of what am I made, shaped into—I saw
in all things, my own transient being.

Quick hummingbirds in the shrubs,
a sign for me alone. A monarch butterfly

of flickering blue, the wind persuading
twigs of forsythia to sway and sway,

despite their obvious grief. All of these
called out to me. Two black hawks

perched on power lines overhead,
then one took flight.

After orchestrating my loneliness, I saw
myself as houseplant—ego green

with bruising, my succulent desire
stolen by year-long midnights. I saw myself

—in what light? Is noiseless terror
still terror? Without a source, was I still

or moving? And whose would be the hand
to water me by morning? No hand signalled

for my frantic music to slow, even though
it disturbed the quiet. Even now, it swells.