One winter afternoon we named our plants,
Thereby saving them, maybe, from our inattention,
Reasoning things with names have better chance
At surviving, if only through intention.
One unfurled in particular, the philodendron
Xanadu, deep-lobed in the white wash of the sunlightÂ
That stained the winter-streaked glass, that tended
Floorward up to claim its place and its height.
Upon the christening it became our roommate
So that we vested it with personal pronouns, he
In his place at the window, living green and palmate.
Our desire for him was also for us: to be.
We granted it time and space from a philosophy.
It stood in the sun in the window in a pot,
Extending itself to the world, rooted and free.
We cared for it that winter. We gave, we got.