Who Can Tell?

I thought it had died.

In March,
when the winds changed warm
and the snow melted,
I found it.
A pot filled to the brim
with pebbles.

Child hands brought them there,
neatly patted them down,
covering the plant completely
before the snows came and went.
Scooping it clear was impossible,
and I only made a half-hearted effort.

April dawned rains, and I forgot about it.

By May when all the resting foliage awoke
and spring greens budded, it lay barren,
brown, cracked, and hard.
A twig in the pale yellow pot.
It was then that I finally uncovered it completely,
removing the last of the pebbles.

June and July calendar pages appeared and disappeared.
With them, drier days. 
Watering cans filled and emptied above potted plants.
The twig's twin pushed vivid green stems skyward, leaves spreading wide. 
A picture of beauty, the twin sat opposing the twig. 
Revealing everything the twig was not.

Weeds, the only green in the twig's pot. 
Tall, thin impostor greenery quickly disposed of,
only to be replaced by soil hugging moss. 
The twin promised a spectacular show
of autumn sunshine colors. 
The twig sat dormant, idle. 

Touching the hard twig,
it snapped. 
I beheld a stub of what had been life. 
Now gone. 
A few more weeks til autumn mums line shelves. 
I hope they have the same color.

August days shone clear and bright. 
A warm evening breeze blew,
children tousled, watering plants and themselves. 
Laughing, I watched oldest daughter flow water into the twig pot. 
I saw life. 
Unmistakable life. 

When all was given up for dead,
left to lie in peace,
roots took in water,
grew up a shoot
and burst through the soil,
spreading its green foliage to the sun. 

For who can tell what lies at the root far beneath hidden in clay pots?
And who can tell what lives in these earthen vessels far beneath the skin we wear?

Linking up today at Imperfect Prose