You brought me a money plant.
Its leafy green stalk
hangs in a crescent
from the black pot
suspended on the grill.
 
It seems to swing the wind
and my thoughts
in its gentle cradle.
 
I come home every night and wake it from its sleep.
"Swing me," I say.
"I am tired of walking".
 
"Hush," say the wilting bamboos and aloes.
"We are dreaming of having feet".