It’s the first time in ten days of living in my new house that I’ve actually awoken in my ‘writing hour’.  That is the time before the dawn, when I can carve out space in darkness to let words rise.

But instead of typing keys this morning, my fingers find their way to greenery.  Plants once windswept on outdoor porches have been brought inside my new abode.  Their leaves are greening, new shoots reaching.

As coffee brews at sunrise, no prose flows to mind.  I simply wander the low lit room from pot to pot, finding deep satisfaction in letting houseplants tell me of their progress.  The kettle steams as I mist the orchid in the kitchen window.

A poem completed can fill a void like an infusion.  Offer a dynamic settling, like the life-giving circle of an inhalation, an exhalation.

Maybe I shouldn’t compare.  Poems and houseplants.

There’s something magic, though.

A rooted joy stirs within me, just looking upon new tendrils unfurling.  So satisfying in the moment, there’s no need for words.