Bernadine Lortis

the view
from her window
is cloudy again

but is it her glasses
a dirty pane, autumn’s frost
or welcome steam rising

from dishes splashing
her rose-flowered Mumu
as she soaks her gnarled hands

she’ll never ask
when her daughter comes
with bananas

she’ll ask instead
for a little ladder
to care for Ivy

who she repots each fall
dusting with olive oil
its smiling curls

that cheer her
like a friendly face
on its determined climb

she knows it would die
above the heat vent
on the splintered sill

she knows
how things shrivel
when lying too long

she knows too well
the importance
of vertical attitude