A philodendron
comes on like a lamp
as late winter sun
turns a corner of this house.
Such deep light!
Some of it must begin
inside the leaves.

Across the room a piano waits.
     It wants to let out a sonata,
          possibly blues, perhaps jazz,
               maybe Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Those leaves are hands. Long-fingered, engaged
               with the quiet living-room air

          which wouldn’t mind
          a burst of music

     or a drift of fog
up against the corner window.