Some plants demand misting schedules, filtered light, and the emotional stability of their owner.
Mine prefers to be forgotten.
It waits until I’m busy, then grows an entirely new leaf out of spite,
as if to say that attention is a burden
and survival is easier without witnesses.

I water it only when guilt becomes visible,
and it responds by thriving;
a quiet rebuke to every book on proper care,
and to me, standing there with the watering can,
realising I am the least necessary part of its success.