Oh— to be a Pothos vine
Crawling towards the light
Always takes her precious time
Makes every room so bright!
Oh— to be a golden green
With marbled fronds so lush
She, the thriving Houseplant Queen
Makes other flora blush!
But, lo— beneath her heavenly form
Her truest magic resides
For through the winter and the storm
She’s balanced as the tides
Oh— to have that perfect Pothos Power
Flourishing through the night
Oh— to grow and never to cower
No matter how daunting the fight
For it’s her courage that we envy,
Her fortitude that we fear
Her resilient leafy frenzy
That will suddenly appear
Even when you think she’s dead and gone
The stars will still align
A tiny sprout will bloom at dawn  
The mighty Pothos vine!

I have neglected you, dear one,
once so full and vivid, now
expatriate in the cheerless corner.
Look at you drooping, clinging
to the bloodless parts of you,
having long dwindled in
the thankless dark.
Here I come with a sharp pang,
lovely amputee.
How much happier you will be
to forget the bereft bits,
no longer of use in your unfolding.
Until memory pales,
will your phantom limbs
also rustle in the window’s breeze?