My Friendships Are Not A Garden

My friendships are not a garden.

They are plants on a windowsill.

The once wilted and downtrodden,

Now safeguarded with goodwill.

A garden is expected to weather storms—

my windowsill has no storms.

A garden can fall prey to predators—

my windowsill has no predators.

A garden can wither and die—

my windowsill only thrives.

My friendship is not meant for a garden--

full of lustful flowers, petals forced to harden,

weeds caused the buds to sour,

thorns waiting for the chance to despoil,

roots rotting just beneath the soil.

concealing snakes,

concealing worms,

concealing fakes,

contradicting the terms.

the garden variety friendship is a fallacy,

smothered by sweet aromas happily.

No, my friendship is not a garden.

My friendship is a windowsill.

My old roots are unsodden.

but the sill is full of warmth still,

watered to each of their needs,

all grown from single seeds,

brightening my mood,

bringing me enormous gratitude.

i oft wonder how many windowsills i dwell upon

does my gardener look on?

do i receive a drink?

what do you think?

do i receive shade?

is my loyalty swayed?

do i receive sun?

or am I just someone?

someone meant for a garden?

where I’m passed over, forgotten--

for more beautiful blossoms,

more sweet smelling alyssums.

I am lost among the weeds,

barely sprouting from my seed.

No, I am not in many gardens.

Instead I reside on few windowsills,

all my thorns graciously pardoned,

cared for and loved still.