A Poem of Paradox

Waiting for Snow

Tonight, I strip day’s clothes
by the heater, my skin
rough and dry as a reptile.
I close curtains against
creeping cold, and the spider
plant rustles like a cough
in my hands. Its tender
tendrils whisper feel me!
And I do.  With my whole body
I feel the weight of its bound
roots and the smell of dirt
dusty and brown. My arms
hold it to my chest, place
it on the coir mat by the door
and pour water into its lanky
leaves.  I pour and pour
as if it is my own thirst I slake.
It exhales a spring night
redolent of earth and rain.
I bow my face and breathe
such sweet fragrance
sleeping now in fist-tight
bulbs and roots awaiting Spring.