I fall asleep while the wind
howls and pleads entry
outside my balcony.
The next morning—a gift,
a soft furry leaf blown
off my thirteen year old geranium plant.
I turn it over, admire
the raised veins starting from
the sturdy stem to the scalloped edge.
The leaf sits close to the mother plant
bright-orangy flowers composed of
so many tiny petals, puffballs of color.
It has taken the humming birds
three years to accept that the vibrant
geranium flowers will never yield nectar.
They try again and again
nosing into the flamboyant petals
with no success.
I empathize with the humming birds.
How many times have I been deceived
by something that is not what it appears to be?
Like the San Francisco bakery touted
to have the best croissants this side of Paris.
After a half hour’s wait, mediocre pastry.
Or the multiple Oscar-winning-movie
rated a master piece—a mega snore-bore.
I talk to the birds through the window.
“Don’t be discouraged,” I say,
you will find other flowers.
Opportunities abound. Have patience. Wait.”
—
Elise Kazanjian is a San Francisco poet/writer who spent her childhood in Tian Jin, China. Her poems and essays have appeared in Fog And Light: San Francisco Through The Eyes of the Poets Who Live Here (2021); Marin Poetry Center 2021 Anthology; New Millennium Writings; and the San Francisco Examiner among others. She has worked at Sunset Magazine; J.W. Thompson Advertising; KQED; CCTV, in Beijing, China; and as a pawnbroker. She has a collection of over 100 fountain pens and mechanical pencils.
