You whispered to the leaves
of our potted plants,
spoke sweet nothings to the succulents
hanging from our garden rafters.
I figured you had heard the news
that flowers bloom brighter
in the wake of warm words,
but you laughed when I remarked
on your intelligence,
stroked the tendrils of a fern
and shook your head.
No, you whispered to the plants
to hear them whisper back,
to hear the spirits within
speak sweet nothings to your soul,
and watch in companionable joy
as you both stood a little taller,
nourished by something
I never believed in
and always wished I had.