You moved clippings of your childhood spider plant
with us in a Ziploc half-filled with tap water
so we could grow something once rooted in the cool
valleys of Blacksburg in our new
Houston duplex . . .
You visit me with your pockets filled with swampwater, the sunflowers
husked and unshaved—an anniversary bouquet
of faces which rise, with you and the temperature,
to strangers . . .