Poor philodendron,
Cut off from your mother's roots
Even in your clean glass jar
With plenty of air, and water and light,
Your sad leaves lie
Curled on my table: resigned
I think I'm a bit like you
I am motherless too
Fatherless soon as well
And a widow now, to boot
But dear green friend, as yet,
I hold out more hope for you
Your verdant days are not over
Your time in the sun, not through
Even now, above your limp, rolled leaves
New growth— green and bright
Reaches forth, against all odds
And searches for the light.
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