Asplenium nidus
She named it Margaret, for the way the morning light always found it first.
She named it Margaret, for the way the morning light always found it first.
She said the holes were where the light learned to walk through the room.
She picked it on a damp October morning and called it the colour of her late father's hair.
She kept it on her writing-desk because she said it taught her how to be still.
She said its silver markings looked like the moon had paused on the leaf overnight.
She turned it slowly toward each window, naming the rooms it lived through.
She measured the wall by it, said the ivy was the family's quietest clock.
She told me the tree had been alive longer than language, and I believed her.
She gave away every offset she could, said the plant only thrived in passing.
She kept it by the kitchen window and called it the one who said evening prayers.
She trained it across the doorway because she wanted the room to greet her in green.
She closed the register with it, because the easiest gifts deserve the last page.