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African Violets

Old ladies click their tongues

at African violets.

They are fussy, they say.

Fickle and difficult.

Strict boundaries about their light.

When my violets flower 

I shrink slightly,

Wondering if the wise women will know

that they flowered without my permission.

That they thrived with no input from me.

In the wrong light. 

With too much water. 

Not enough attention. 

And far too many crowns. 

That I have somehow

deceived violets into believing

that I know how all this works.

Because that sounds like

something I would do. 

Recommend0 Simily SnapsPublished in All Stories, Personal Narrative, Poetry