The broad, lush blades of guinea grass
shrink from the sun in self-defence;
gardenia leaves begin to wilt,
their wordless tongues a plea for help.
The sturdy little mandarin
that joined them only recently
subtly changes colour
as its cells begin to dehydrate.
But that exotic newcomer
with leaf lobes like prehensile hands
that gesture with Greek eloquence
holds out for some life-giving drops
from cloudy skies or kindly taps,
plants its feet implacably,
spreads its palms in mute demand
until I run with brimming pails.
The sapling fig exhales its thanks
and drinks and drinks insatiably…