Consider the Flowers
First, the crocus,
wee purple heads
bursting through the dirt,
straight up and down,
a fine green hair sprouting
like intuition
from the still-sleeping beds.
Then the daffodil, its
delicate yellow trumpet,
a tunnel for bees, the star
pattern of its ridged petals,
how it thrusts itself up from
the winter's soggy detritus,
spongy loam of rotten leaves,
fluttering knife-like arms in
in the chilled May breeze.
And, ah, the tulips, silky and red,
pure sex along their pollen frosted
stamens, giving us luscious peeks at
their black centers as they shiver
by our tired May houses, flicking
gleaming equine skins in a clear
winey light.
But of all the flowers
that have yet to appear,
I like best the iris -- its tall,
stately stalks, at first tight,
contained, studded with
infant fists, and then
unfurling into June air,
frank and fleshy,
unapologetic excess,
peeling back to
translucent purples, blues,
yellows, whites, reds --
shouting dragon mouth,
a shy woman inviting her lover
to bed, origin of
all things.
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