I feed these plants
with my breath
and their breathing
feeds me.
Their leaves are whispering
to the trees of my lungs,
cell to cell,
in speech older than words
and quieter than sound.
The plants in my house always die
but these are green
and hungry,
stretching their arms to the windows,
and I am stretching myself
to them.
-
Author:
Tim Lockman (
Offline) - Published: May 27th, 2026 20:45
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments2
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A poem of that trade we have with the plant family. We often neglect to acknowledge our reliance on plants our botanical brothers.
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