Once, to sell myself
I sent a bonsai,
The logic being,
You have the seeds, the tools,
All you need is me to get the thing blooming,
And the man who got that became closer,
Invited me to his family’s home
Where the bonsai was on show
Looking amazingly healthy,
Amazingly, with all its leaves, midwinter.
When I saw this he and his wife coughed
And his wife said they all fell off
But knowing you were coming
I made paper ones
And stuck them on.
That, to me, was love.
And I’ve had loves where leaves fall off,
But no one makes new ones.
And some bonsai do lose their leaves.

By Henry Berry

Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. Click here to read Henry Berry’s Blog.

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