Midwinter in the Palm House
Outside, it is snowing; a lone robin grubs
for millet seeds on the cement path.
Inside, it's steamy, banana plant fronds
stretch to the roof, platforms for monkeys.
Water blinks like an eye in a purple bromeliad;
bee buzzes trapped in nectar of a pitcher plant.
We explore musty forest of mosses and ferns,
hidden niches with white catleya orchids, throated
with speckled saffon. The snow melts on glass
above us, but in here it is eternal summer.
My hand presses yours; your thumb traces
a hieroglyph on my palm.
Christopher T. George