Follow me through my needles, beyond the drained brown exterior,
Under the falling leaves of my premature buds – through my soil
Toward the plastic bottom shielded from the hanging sun.
Seated on a sill I wither one day at a time.
Thousands of miles to the west traces of ancestry still exist
Where winds outweigh the rains,
Where days burn and nights turn frigid as these new winters,
Where I was not possessed and displayed, forgotten,
Sustained barely by weeks old waters.
Before I was packed in tightly to this plastic pot,
Flown across the country and placed by the window,
Before I was nameless, labeled only as exotic,
Before the harvest.
That's one of the portions (one of the 5 portions!) of my Lit 499 final. We had an option to either design a course or write something creatively that applies to the class. I took the creative writing thing. The class deals with Eco-Criticism and general environmental relationships in literature.