In their corner, under the cool glow of their lights,
my little houseplants keep sprouting their leaves
and making seeds, as if they didn’t know
that the light was artificial. But I suspect they do.
They seem quieter somehow in their winter home
than when they’re basking on the summer sills,
their joy turned inward now, their songs reduced
to murmurs as they share their dreams.
“Soon,” I whisper to them as I water their soil,
“soon. The breezes will come, the birds return
to sing their morning songs, and the rain
will perfume the air. Until then, my dears,
we wait.“