Life in Miniature

By Isabelle Wei

Last night, as I began

watering the plants—

carrot-hued zinnias,

pansies, and sneezeweeds, each

gingerly, tenderly brightening—

I thought about the little life

in my flat. The flowers,

too quiet a gold, in their ceramic

vases on the dinner table. The tomatoes

like planets, shining fatly

on their stalks: sidled against

the stars of watered pots.

And I thought of the arugula, the watercress,

the garden cress. The chives.

Yet—I pause, briskly, and sigh.

I had hardly been home to watch them bloom,

always dashing, always fluttering

somewhere: the bakery, perhaps,

or the library. The deli. A nail salon.

Anywhere but the apartment my father left.

Yet—when the sun beams over these

wet, glittering months, there is a glint

in the breeze. Thick, it is. Heady.

And the cloves of garlic and mint

and purply succulents breathe lushly

in the bowls above, a concert I hum to

as I wash the dishes, paint my nails,

nail a poster up on the wall.

It is nice, I think, to drink the colour

of the plants—a carrot-hued, pulpy thing.

There is life in this flat, after all.

At night, I string new lights along the window

and catch them winking in the glass.

Isabelle Wei is a writer and artist. She is the recipient of the 2023 Yamabuki Prize and has been recognized by The Poetry Society, the Wilbur and Niso Smith Foundation, and the Global Priorities Institute. Recent publications include Carolina Muse, IAMB, and Occulum, among others. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.