I work soggy fir bark
between tentacaled roots.
A weekly ritual of
soaking
dislodging
replacing.

I wonder if the orchid minds—
this repeated untethering?

My fingers on wet cocoa peat 
conjure the day fully formed—
my father, purple blooms in hand.
My mother looking at the man
with no romance in his soul,
struck by Cupid’s arrow.

The planet turned and oceans ebbed.
They have returned to the earth.
Yet the history left behind
remains in this vessel, 
intact.
And each Saturday, 
I return to tend it.