Reminded to water, which I had forgotten to schedule into a rapidly depleting morning, I rush to jar/spigot/soil-filled pots and fulfill my plant-owner obligations not noticing how the oxygen this morning is singing as it clings to the hydrogen couples, all emanating with joy when I make that annoyed magical movement with my wrist, how it pools like diamond, foregoing reminiscence to instead reflect unnoticed now in the edges of its soul and share them if I’d stop to look down, how they spill again to their newest home, the refined and delineated dirt containing roots of plants I have purchased and placed around my patio, immigrants making a go in foreign soil which I manage to keep mostly wet enough but fail to see that the lingering damp where my yellow nozzle dripped and where excess escaped between grass-guarding stones or out the small holes pressed beneath terra cotta has formed nations of foil across grey slate, finding the sun in this filtered and listed place and turning it more precious than the brightest diamonds.