The plant growing in the kombucha bottle

Green spinning, twirling into a spiral,

fountaining over the glossy edge of the bottle.

Resting on the ledge, 

chipped paint from the dog barking out the window.


New lips open, growing,

singing a symphony.

An unchoreographed dance that’s pushing and pulling.

Free in your own way.


The sun has glazed the edges of your leaves.

Drops of water linger on the edges.

These white lines holding you to the earth,

keeping you well.


Yellow, pale and sick.

I peel away the dying,

It’s left to sit in a dark void.

Keep pouring yourself out.