Remembering the Hothouse

Remembering the Hothouse for our daughters Wind skids on curves of trees, immured in ice, seeds sleep. Inside, I shiver. Then, from bean fields of the mind, coiling on propping studs of flesh ascends the blossoming hope; and I know that pregnant Sal, smoothed with cocoa cream sails snoring into birth. Her waters warm, protect, and part: the cargo singing in her crib melts the chill when wind skins bark and bones and every other year the chorus grows.