(In memory of Nell Lester)

The snippet of creeping plant
in the pint glass on my kitchen windowsill
has grown wispy roots that wave
like the dangling tentacles of jellyfish
or the white-blonde hair of a girl
floating on her back.

I was that girl when Mrs. Lester
next door gave me a snippet of the plant
and showed me how to let it root
in water before installing it in dirt.

It’s one of the easiest plants to grow,
I hear her say from her spot
in the afterlife, which I hope has
a nice garden for her. And cats.

Though I could now remove
this offshoot from its liquid nursery
and stick it in the little pot
next to its cousin, I have not.

It’s ready to migrate from one
environment to another, but
every time I stand at the sink
and look at the half-full glass,
at what is growing under
the surface,

I am captivated by the delicate
waving tendrils, reminded of all
I do not see, of what continues
to thrive, to set down roots,
even when I mistakenly imagine
that it cannot.