There was a monkey once,
famous for cleverness—
slick tongue, quick hands,
always a step ahead
of those chasing the shimmer of his schemes.
He sold them gold-plated watering cans—
shiny, hollow,
useless under sun and soil.
He made his living off illusions,
knowing some folks would always trade
substance for shine.
I think of him sometimes,
especially in our garden,
where the old tin can Kelli and I bought
at a flea market in our twenties
still carries water
to the roots of our world.
It’s not pretty anymore—
the handle’s rusted,
and the base sings a metallic sigh
when tipped too far.
But it works.
It always has.
We’ve been together through seasons of flash:
the fancy brunches,
the Instagram vacations,
the chase to look like the life we already had.
Now, I crave real things—
like the sweat behind effort,
the laughter after an argument,
the quiet promise of spring
rising from last year’s rot.
The monkey knew how the world worked.
But I wonder—
did he ever grow anything?
© Susie Stiles-Wolf