After thirty-four years of being carried
from house to house
she is nearly too heavy to lift.
Doubled over, she skims my
middle, verdant leaves still plump
as the Emerald Buddha.
Her first daughter grew into
a tropical tango of lusty offshoots—
one winter she bloomed white halos.
A dozen granddaughters left as they reached
pot-boundness—most live with relatives.
Two took off with strangers during a porch sale.
How gently we repaired her trunk,
split with age—settled her into that
costly cerulean glazed planter.
We watered her in our secrets
she brought us good fortune as promised—
there is a chance she will outlive us.