In the tall, narrow window
of the 15th Street bedroom
I filled clay pots with cuttings
from other worlds,
Mexico, Hawaii, Africa.
Purple leafed Coleus
and sharp spikes of Bromeliad,
Cacti shaped like stones;
sitting on the wooden ledge,
overlooking the fire escape
and the dark street below.

I am here now
where everything grows.
Hibiscus shrubs fill
with crepe paper flowers
and succulents spread
from cracks in the concrete.
Jasmine runners circle the railing,
move closer to the door.
The spigot is wrapped in ivy,
Bougainvillea hangs in streamers
over the porch.

I have not missed
that city where I lived
root bound, nutrient starved,
like a patient convalescing,
chair angled toward the sun,
magnified by the glass
into believing I was home.

Published in Inkblots

Photo by Victoire Joncheray on Unsplash