Just as I wonder

    whether it's going to die，

    the orchid¹ blossoms

    and I can't explain why it

    moves my heart， why such pleasure

    comes from one small bud

    on a long spindly stem， one

    blood red gold flower

    opening at mid-summer，

    tiny， perfect in its hour.

    Even to a white-

    haired craggy poet， it's

    purely² erotic，

    pistil and stamen， pollen³，

    dew of the world， a spoonful

    of earth， and water.

    Erotic because there's death

    at the heart of birth，

    drama in those old sunrise

    prisms in wet cedar⁴ boughs⁵，

    deepest mystery

    in washing evening dishes

    or teasing my wife，

    who grows， yes， more beautiful

    because one of us will die.