absurdly,
you keep a little plant,
green and whispy
with a single bud,
in a mixing bowl
in the dirty water of your
kitchen sink;
right there, in front of the
little window,
whose empty halflit sky
announces that today,
inexplicably,
it is raining again.
it is your little boat,
floating on some other dirty
ocean,
carrying with it its tendril of
green hope.
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