The sensitive plant is a houseguest—
but it thrives, during summer, outdoors.

It likes direct sun (not too hot)—
it loves dampened soil (not too wet)—
it craves breath of space (not too much)—
any of these, in excess, can kill

those leaves that fold up,
those stems that roll up,
when touched without care
for their kind.

More often than not, it’s tossed out
when the season has come to an end,
an annual whose beauty’s adored
til it’s not, til that beauty has waned.

But those who do care will not plant
these kids in the heat,
nor drown their sweet feet,
nor assume that this poem

is about flowers.