Published in The Owl
I could just recognize the way
the shiny dew from daybreak
would bead off of the velvet fur
like a mallard’s tunic. The fluff
was whisked corduroy against
my coarse fingertips that had
been roughened and toughened
by the hot, torrid concrete
from evening games of pretend.
Such softness I had never known
in unmarred wilderness, in chaste
fields. No, neither the matted
fur of backyard mule deer
nor the knit wool hairs of the
tussock moth caterpillar
could compare to the leaves’ plush
touch. Only once had this softness
kissed my fingertips: on the frayed
baby blue blanket, hibernating tidily
at the end of my childhood mattress.
One decade later, I saw the plant
again today. I didn’t know its name.
I just recognized the way the fleece
looked like vanilla frosting:
my favorite.
Jaden Fong 