Every inch of space
in the small rectangular balcony,
seems taken up.

I can spot...
a plastic  dustbin in the corner,
unwanted stuff piled up on one side,
a couple of shirts, saris, uniforms
swinging merrily on the clothesline,
grandpa's reclining chair lying closeby,
grandma's plate of chillies left to dry,
the little one's favourite red tricycle,
an overflowing shoe rack,
a mop stick standing upright, left to dry

but amidst the clutter,
tucked away in a corner,

I sense a surge of green breath,
a small, green potted plant,
struggling to emerge
from inside a brown womb,

its  green, layered robe
displaying a touch of elegance,
thanks to tiny specks of sunlight
painting miniature golden tattoos,
that chubby fingers clutching
the tricycle bell,
want to catch and hold.