Mimosa

You know this
little soft plant
too well: tender
stem, tiny leaves
always shrinking
away. You wish
for something here
to last — as the sun
enunciates a new
tender morning,
you often wake
from the dream
of un-retreat. But
these days hiding
& seeking are costly
 — so easy, now,
to remain inert.

(Note: this poem is kind of about mimosa pudica, a great, fascinating plant.)