The first orchid I ever met
was a gift presented to my grandmother
by an elegant neighbor who came for dinner.
My grandmother received it reverently
transferred the arching stems into a cobalt porcelain planter
adjusted the spires on their supporting stakes
and laid it upon the carved chest in the foyer.
So I knew it was precious, and rare.
My grandmother could make anything grow
in her long clipped contoured beds
but indoors was different.
Despite her daily mist and weak tea
and anxious hovering
that orchid was dead within months.
Great trees fall. My grandmother died
just as the daughter I named for her was born.
Some years later I took that daughter to Monteverde
where orchids attach themselves haphazardly
to decomposing logs, in jointed nooks
between canopy tree branches
the mossy bases of trees
Orchids don’t rely on soil for their sustenance.
They can pull what they need from moist air and refuse
suspended particles of fog, tiny stagnant pools,
half rotted leaves
Listening to Women Talking I recoiled
when Scarface spat, Want Less.
There surely is a difference
between enforced wanting less
and possessing the ability to draw real sustenance
from air
and dirty water.
