This is my first attempt at some Emily Dickens- style poetry. Just an exercise, not to worry, like I'm sure you were.

She sits, a plant within these walls
a pot upon the shelf
but moving of her own accord
and breath of willful health.

Her hearing tunes acutely
to the tones and whirs and clangs
of all the cars and people
that midday traffic brings.

The sun shines down in fragments
upon the unmade bed
and mice race in and out
of the dreams within her head.

At night when we’re all sleeping
she stalks the shadows down
then curls up at our heels,
and joins this sleeping town.