Solstice Re-pot

more than the obvious metaphor
of depth for roots to fully extend
of leaves elevated to eat blue light
of fingers smooshing generative dirt

it’s when I hear myself sing to you
crassula ovata, as I upheave you
croon ballads as I displace you
shawl melody around earthquake 

as if to say to your bright fat leaves
nothing is promised, sweet green girl
I know the terror of unhoming
dance this one with me