Orchidaceae

My world is small. Crafted with expert hands, more intricate than mine

spun on a disk, and suffered through the greatest of temperatures.

Yes, I can see beyond my small world.

I might be able to extend my arms further –

further

and they might feel the outside world

if not for my roots, my feet

Hitting a wall, bound, claustrophobic, and stopping me from reaching with my arms

for I can grow no longer.

The walls stopping me, perhaps, are supposed to remind me of my real home.

My real world is of brown, of green, of yellow, of the soil around my feet

but what I feel now, in this world, is a hard, impenetrable dome of clay.

Is it the same, I wonder,

to the people who place us here, out of convenience

compared to the greatness outside this world

where we can grow freely.

Is it the same, I wonder,

the wild and the untamed,

when we are left to our own devices

compared with sitting on a tabletop, neglected, unwatered.