I’ve grown up an ungrounded sort,
a hydroponic soul,
needing just a little water
and a hanging bowl.
My roots contained in one small ball,
I scorn the garden plot,
with no desire for floor space, just
a mid-air sunny spot.
I don’t crave soil for sustenance
Or fancy irrigation.
I’ve got the perfect single life −
who needs cross-pollination?
But I am not your hardy mums
or dusty Boston greens.
Get one that settles, sinks its roots,
for your domestic scenes.
And I will hang around some more,
so free of earthy ties.
But looking down, I never see
what macramé belies.