Skip to main content Find and share the perfect poems. for Molly Peacock My mother thinks she cannot grow orchids: the initial blooms shrivel, turn to dust on the window ledge. The stalk, once green, becomes a dry stick, soon appraised for the same value she gives every crinkled brown leaf: She cut it off. She did not know to wait to examine turgid base leaves, jungle vibrant, roots brimming the pot’s rim, testing the drainage holes, seeking sun, trickling water.
