It is my favorite green thing.
This plant is sensitive. It fears touch. Strangers. Strange fingers, or toes, or rubber sneaker soles.
Its leaves resemble palm tree fronds. And yet, it does something no palm tree is capable of: at the slightest unwanted touch this plant clamps shut, shielding itself from the world.
I imagine this plant is open to rain, that it loves breeze, that its senses are fine tuned to screen friend from foe.
This plant is a reflection of me. I've learned when to spring shut. When to shield my heart and soul to unwanted touch, unsought attention, hostile energy.
The man I love is breeze, sunlight. With him my leaves lay open.
With him my leaves lay open.
In Panama there is a plant, often overlooked as it creeps through sidewalk cracks and nestles roads.
I imagine it knows when the threat is gone, that at that moment it reopens, stretching its green limbs to the sun.
I've never seen the leaves reopen. I feel guilty now for playing with this plant I love, teasing it with branches, and finger tips, and shoe soles.
I've learned when I can miss the sun and hide in my own shade.
I have learned to value those who don't trigger my fronds, startle my leaves, cramp me into spaces where I feel unsafe.
I know rain from fingers, friend from foe.
When my skin prickles, I know it's not the way the wind has blown.
His light gently caresses my leaves. I find no reason to be closed.
He does not toy with my uniqueness.
He never teases my leaves to watch me spring shut.
He does not push the edges of my boundaries.
He does not creep near me or search for me between the cracks.
He waits for me patiently.
I reach for him with my open palms.
He nurtures my open heart.