by Heather Bartos
Jade plants will never win beauty contests.
Snub-nosed, squat, solid-thighed,
Pudgy limbs and squinty little blossoms.
But deep roots and thick flesh
Gather what guarantees survival,
What grants longevity.
Absorb every drop of hope,
Each ray of encouragement,
All words of praise.
Slice a leaf, snap a branch
And it will heal itself whole again,
Scar and stump the only sign.
Its own replenishment, resource, retreat,
A deep, wide wealth of well,
A barn full of grain for swallows in the snow.
Current life from yesterday’s rain,
From last summer’s sun,
Dense from receiving and holding of the giving.
How amazing to hold within and inside
Memories of kindness
To shade and shield from the heat
To insulate and inoculate against the cold
Until without and outside
Become a friend once more.
Originally published in The Bluebird Word in February 2022.
Heather Bartos writes both fiction and nonfiction. Her essays have appeared in Fatal Flaw, McNeese Review, HerStry, LitroUSA, and elsewhere. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Baltimore Review, Ponder Review, Rappahannock Review, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, and other publications.
