Envy
It was on the Via Santa Teresa
just before you reach the piazza that
the Turin guide-books say you mustn’t
miss that I saw the potted bush. Of course
I’d seen a potted bush before. They’re
everywhere these days. In flower shops,
inside the mall, on balconies. Some
even grow quite tall. Almost the
size of trees. The one I saw that day
was neither tall nor small. It caught
my eye because it was so fit, and full
and glossy green, with firm sharp leaves
I wouldn’t dare to pick. Someone had
trimmed it square to match the pot,
a cube of gray-white marble with a
crest carved in relief. A coat of arms,
or a carving made to look like one. It
stood beside the window of a shop
displaying one glass bowl, a paper
flower, and some petals scattered
on a bed of lustrous satin, warmed
by soft rose lighting overhead.
I don’t know what that sleek shop
sold, but it was clear that someone
there took time to tend the bush,
and bring it in when winds blew wild
or hail lashed down on Turin.
And if some day the shop should move,
not likely for the shops all looked as if
they’d been there long, as long as the
palazzos, I knew that bush would not be
left behind. For with a potted bush you
never have to worry that the roots will
cling and struggle to stay fast or that the
new terrain will be unkind to strangers. (First published in Poetry Canada June/July/Aug/Sept. 2007
and in Voices Israel 2007 Vol.33)
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