My houseplant committed suicide.
It came out of the blue - or at least - I didn’t catch the signs.

I’d put it on my window ledge so it could catch some sun
- it appeared to be having a good time.

I brushed it with my elbow - the wispy kiss of a butterfly
and it leapt to its shattering end - I never will know why.

The girl it barely missed, looked up - in accusatory alarm.
“What if that had been a BABY!” I yelled, to keep her calm.

We had a terra-cotta funeral - my roommates seemed really sad -
and a reception where no plant-life was consumed.

Lisa, acted quickly - she’s a fashionable 911
and at the funeral she buried the corpse, in a new ***, in her room.

Kalanchoë, finally you bloom!
Welcome little foreigner,
To the corner of my room.
With frangipani flame
And crocus-gold effulgent.
Strains past succulent skin
Joyous, ebullient!
Though your petals grow
Just to hold it in,
Fiery blood escapes
Past watery blocks of ester-swell
And you exult with me
In a wintry cell.