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.