Even fertile ground and a reliable
reputable supply of fresh water
from a mountain stream or rainstorm or
artificial means cannot support a soul
that has no roots. You could

experiment with supplements or
stimulation, whether electrical or
pharmacological, not natural.
It doesn’t matter; you’ll know
in short measure. If the soul continues

to refuse, if it will not root, you must
consider transplantation, or, in extreme
cases, extraction. I’ve often pondered
repotting myself. Maybe a soul would thrive
in full sun on the beach at Cascais or Estoril,

or in a miradouro’s shifting shade, maybe
beneath pergolas at Santa Luzia or in shadows cast
by precisely placed palms at São Pedro de Alcântara,
or within castle walls in an exquisite peacock
blue urn at São Jorge. I once discarded mine

for a moment in a ceramic sardine locket
below the ancient jacarandas on the edge
of Largo do Carmo, but, for now, it nestles
at Sintra in a crenulated stone scallop shell
sheltered within Neptune’s watchful gaze.