On the high round table it stands;
small plant in a plastic pot
tender leaves
turn to the narrow window,
angled
to meet the faithful morning sun.
We water it daily,
carry it carefully
to the deep sink for a good, long drink
and then back to its own bright place
estranged from the wilder yard by double-pane.
Sudden as September,
it happens.
In the grey morning,
bathed in their own pure light
bright blooms, fragrant breaths
of insistent life,
sing the sweet song
of survival.
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