In the upstairs bathroom, on the sill,
is the mother. Graceful, a spill
of green; leaves and stems 
and growth. Her children,
collected by her side, pushing outwards:
limbs floundering and searching
for space to root and be.
Clinging to her sleeves, protected –
or protecting? She blooms, creates them all
for herself – an abundance – some so small
they peek
from between the strands of her, waiting;
for the day they may become her, as she did
before them.