The Métier Of Blossoming

Fully occupied with growing—that'sthe amaryllis.

Growing especiallyat night: it would takeonly a bit more patience than I've gotto sit keeping watch with it till daylight;the naked eye could register every hour'sincrease in height.

Like a child against a barn door,proudly topping each year's achievement,steadily upgoes each green stem, smooth, matte,traces of reddish purple at the base, and almostimperceptible vertical ridgesrunning 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 flowerhas opened when you wake.

Or you catch it poisedin a single, briefmoment of hesitation.

Next day, another,shy at first like a foal,even a third, a fourth,carried triumphantly at the summitof those strong columns, and eacha Juno, calm in brilliance,a maiden giantess in modest splendor.

If humans could bethat intensely whole, undistracted, unhurried,swift from sheerunswerving impetus!

If we could blossomout of ourselves, givingnothing imperfect, withholding nothing!