The Nursery

— Pushpa MacFarlane

Out in the patio under a thin gauze-white
canopy tethered to a thick-gauge wire mesh
wound around metal posts, anchored
by concrete, hollow blocks, and brick
at intervals of 12 feet or so, is lined up
a parade of pots, glazed gargantuan
earthenware in varied shapes and
dimensions—three feet high, wide-
brimmed mortars in ultramarine and jade,
gold, glazed veneers marble-like, resting
atop another, hour-glass style. The plants
invincible, unseen behind the stretched
canvas, unless you crane over inquisitively,
and stand on your toes, when you walk under
the canopy. Wooden pallets propped up,
a make-shift counter on cardboard boxes,
black pots overturned in piles, white plastic
and green wide-mouthed, yet silent—
empty, waiting for a pit full of earth.
A promise of sunshine, seed, a germinating
cotyledon, root, stem, and leaf. Bees
whipping up a buzz. Pollination.
Progeny. A new life, and hope—
the start of a new generation.

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