The Métier of Blossoming

    Fully occupied with growing——that's

    the amaryllis. Growing especially

    at night： it would take

    only a bit more patience than I've got

    to sit keeping watch with it till daylight；

    the naked eye could register every hour's

    increase in height. Like a child against a barn door，

    proudly topping each year's achievement，

    steadily up

    goes each green stem， smooth， matte，

    traces of reddish purple at the base， and almost

    imperceptible vertical ridges

    running the length of them：

    Two robust stems from each bulb，

    sometimes with sturdy leaves for company，

    elegant sweeps of blade with rounded points.

    Aloft， the gravid buds， shiny with fullness.

    One morning——and so soon！——the first flower

    has opened when you wake. Or you catch it poised

    in a single， brief

    moment of hesitation.

    Next day， another，

    shy at first like a foal，

    even a third， a fourth，

    carried triumphantly at the summit

    of those strong columns， and each

    a Juno， calm in brilliance，

    a maiden giantess in modest splendor.

    If humans could be

    that intensely whole， undistracted， unhurried，

    swift from sheer

    unswerving impetus！ If we could blossom

    out of ourselves， giving

    nothing imperfect， withholding nothing！