On the high round table it stands;

small plant in a plastic pot

tender leaves

turn to the narrow window,


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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s