Potted Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Since seedling
I've been dreaming
on this shelf.
If only
myth might shower
on my head.
If only
I might stretch out
in a bed of writers,
scholars growing like myself.
What if my roots
had Latin, even Greek?
What if all day
my thoughts could see the sky,
my branches pruned
to please a critic's eye,
tradition’s trellis
lift when limbs grow weak?
No, I don't mind
my blossoms turning brown
But was I bred for this?
What I might write,
if I had inspiration,
shining light?
Will boredom dry my leaves
till I fall down?
If only someone
pluck and smell a word
I wish my fading colors
might be heard.