Pothos

My Golden Pothos strives so hard, to 

Grace the sun-dappled Persian rug

With elegant tendrils, she senses her world, 

Exploring beyond her small side-table

It's almost as if she'd no idea, that 

Once her soft leaves reach the floor 

I'll cut them off

Replant them anew

Maybe in another room

Beneath another warm, bright window 

Where the process will begin again

This is how it has always been 

Having been born, was the primary sin.