I received a gift today, a new plant, that smells like the cold, like my mother. It brings life to my frost and diffuses the dark where I dwell. Its leaves are lush valleys and its roots originate with the dead, even though they were separated at birth. These roots do not know to what bones they were tied, which tired bones they would have grown around if only they were planted on a cemetery. I prefer it that way, because this plant is new and unworn and every drop of water makes it sing with pleasure. It is nice to be needed by something so independently rooted.