I wonder if they know
that I can hear their roots burrowing,
and their stems stretching,
and their leaves sighing.
Do they long for the swift whisper of breeze,
or the open expanse of soil;
the endless prairie of the earth’s soft, stony shell?
Do they miss the tickle of bees
or the company of trees?
Do they resent me for confining them—
or do they sit sweetly, cupped in ceramic,
like a newborn in a father’s hands?
These sentinels and ornaments,
pets and guardians.
These companions and listeners,
voyeurs and whisperers.
These watchers, waiters,
I wonder if they can hear me growing, too.