Apartment of a Lily and a Rose

My pocket doors slide open,
the rose in the living room meets my gaze,
she’s stretching for the picture window.
She blossoms and opens wide
then turns back to the sun
reaching her petaled face through the dusty blinds.
I rub the death from my eyes,
we have woken up inside of spring.
Her rooted feet have dug into the floor
I water her with a coffee urn.
We do this every day,
when the sun meets us,
and every season we sprout, bloom, die.
In the showers we wash the grounds from our hair,
move around our green house growing, blooming.