Toe-hold on bald outcrops,
slippery slope baked in fiery fury of May.
Condemned to run accustomed route to ruin.
Morning,your petals rejoiced in the dew of promise,the world a green glory with tacti and ferns preening.
Denied of soil,and thirsting for rain,you clung for dear life to heartless rock,hoping,just hoping for a finger of cloud.
But defying gravity,you budded with a scent of water caught by flaring nostrils.
See! yester heartbreaks, trauma of empty hands,have disappeared with the night.
Although you cannot boast a forest giant yet, these lush leaves hold lasting peat to shame scourges of dryness.
And where they declare desert today shall bloom an orchard of evergreen shoots thrusting into the sky.
@ Chris Anyokwu.
