The summer greenhouse,
”geranium factory,”
we laugh, coin the name.

The geraniums,
the plots of land and gardens—
only poems left.

My geranium
repotted for spring—
palms up to the sun.

Warm humility,
nodding toward the window,
winter geranium.

My plants and I wake,
I ring the small morning bell—
sound catches in the leaves.