Drought Resistance

I lifted the pot to clear the gray dust

from the wood of the sill, but the base didn't hold.

It slumped to the side, a hollowed-out husk,

and the smell of the roots was damp and old.

The needles are sharp, a gold-plated wall,

but the heart of the thing is a bucket of silt.

I watched the white rings on the saucer all fall,

while the inside was drowning in the water I spilt.

It kept up the act for longer than most,

standing stiff in the light while it rotted away.

Now it's just a green, prickly ghost

leaning into the glass in the middle of the day.