Generally only the plants depend on us. We do our jobs well––
if not their names we know their buds intimately,
during which season they exert themselves out of cocoon.

Some don’t survive the frosted root.
I have known winters like that, like the deadened hydrangea
brought in for refund, twig matter stripped of glamor,

blown open to the elements. The sun eager to make life
of me, but a pinch too far. By good grace I was cared for:
watered regularly, fed generous capfuls of nutrients.

Though it reeked and stung, I did not resist love.
By spring I thought to look down at my arm––beheld:
a precious waft of foliage begun its passage.

Soon my green arms will be jeweled
with stone white blooms. In the garden
I will be marvelled at.

Alejandra Vansant grew up on the Eastern Shore of Virginia and is a graduate of the University of Virginia. She enjoys quilting, poetry, and walking around.