The Métier of Blossoming

    Fully¹ 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，

    steadily² up

    goes each green stem， smooth， matte，

    traces of reddish purple at the base， and almost

    imperceptible vertical³ ridges⁴

    running the length of them：

    Two robust⁵ 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 poised⁶

    in a single， brief

    moment of hesitation⁷.

    Next day， another，

    shy at first like a foal，

    even a third， a fourth，

    carried triumphantly⁸ at the summit

    of those strong columns， and each

    a Juno， calm in brilliance⁹，

    a maiden¹⁰ giantess in modest splendor¹¹.

    If humans could be

    that intensely whole， undistracted， unhurried，

    swift from sheer

    unswerving impetus¹²！ If we could blossom

    out of ourselves， giving

    nothing imperfect， withholding¹³ nothing！