Snow shot through with spears
of sunlight, cloudy gusts that sparkle
and dismay, we complain. Plants ignore us.
Just inside a thin glass barrier
that protects their pores from
freezing they are aware, as we are
not, each day lasts longer. Perhaps
by no more than a few seconds or
a moment, but enough for one phaleonopsis
to extend a spike of green finger
to touch a snowflake. Fat geranium buds
swell where yesterday there were none.
Someone told me last fall to uproot them,
to shake the soil from their hapless roots,
to hang them from a basement rafter or, better still,
throw them into the trash. You can always buy new
next year. It is almost... next year. I am no God. Clouds
shred like torn tissue. We see the same sun with which
plants have been conversing all those gray December
days, all the overcast afternoons when we doubted,
while we complained of lack of colors, plants
ignored us, yes, and in silent conversations
with light prepare to reveal it.
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