A Scaffold of Wood

A solitary basil seedling in the terracotta planter was leaning low... its fragile neck bowed beneath the weight of an unshed bead of water. Such a posture carries an uneasy grief. I touched the cool baked clay without a whisper of sound. Beside the pot lay a slender wooden toothpick. Taking the pale splinter in both hands, I drove its tip deep into the dark peat, parallel to the faltering stalk. With one measured breath against my fingertip, I brushed the heavy droplet away. Slowly... with patient, unyielding fingers, I coaxed the tender stem upright, resting its curve flush against the wood. It bends no longer. The green spine stands poised... breathing with the morning.