Organic

There is something red growing
on my tenth floor apartment's balcony.
It is silent like hunger, cold like a fact
and it sways like some unattended lines of a long forgotten poem.

Yet it appears organic and my one year old son tries to reach for it.
Someday he might just be able to touch it, feel it,
smell it, perhaps grasp it with his two hands.

In what you see today as a lone Hibiscus,
growing on my tenth floor apartment's balcony,
I see a crimson tide.
I see a crusade.