He takes the little clippings and puts them on the sills in the shot glasses we threw back at our house party on New Year’s Eve.

Filled with water now,
they make tiny homes to the small plants that
he pushed through the holes of
skeleton keys
and bits of citrine,
so the wind won’t take them from us.

They are there when the morning light moves through the room.

They are there when we read the news.

They are there when I curse because I can’t find the gloves I have to put on to go outside.

They are there when the afternoon sun
warms the South facing windows
and moves up the sky
to change places with the moon.

Just like
the sun and the moon always have done,
way
before
we were born.

The basil and the thyme
that he planted in small burlap sacks,
push their tiny heads through the dirt
to move towards the sun.

He makes his coffee in the kitchen.
He kisses the side of my face and scratches my back.
I stretch upward toward the ceiling.
Those hands that get in the dirt,
that nurture tiny alive plants
in skeleton keys
and crystals
and burlap sacks
and shot glasses,
move their life across me.

The smell of ground coffee beans wafts through the kitchen.
The neighbor coughs downstairs.

The sun breaks through the clouds and disappears again.

On the windowsill,
the tiny green sprouts turn their heads toward the sun,
whether it makes an appearance on this grey day or not.

They still know.

Grow.
Unfurl.
Lift your leaves.
Breathe. 🌱