What Is It?

My "Plant" poem for the November poetic challenge


What Is It?

"What is it?" my husband asked.
His faith in my knowledge was touching;
I can grow herbs and tomatoes
but am a mass murderer of houseplants.
"I don't know." We both stared -
it was a weed, or a baby tree or a flower.
That much at least was clear.
"Should we dig it up?" he mused.
It has reddish leaves and a long thin stem
and looks innocent, exposed
by our weeding and ruthless culling of hedges;
its secret life and gentle growth
gone forever, like childhood; I cannot cut it.
He looks at me, hopfully
"It could be a tree. I bet it's a tree."
It could be; some bird may have dropped seed
in the undergrowth of our garden
and from this tiny source, a trunk and branch
and deciduous colours in Autumn
and shade and root may yet grow, and tower.
Why not? Why not a tree as easily as a weed?
"It looks like a tree to me."

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