Water pours
from table to floor
at the lower brims of terra cotta, roots
quenched with a slow drip
on an evening
when I had never known
they were full—
spilling out sufficiently
as a rosary
bead by bead—
and what silent care begins in a heart
carries a need
to the One who hears
quiet roots make way
for the words—
magnified
in bright blooms she had always known
and held, within.