Emboldened enigmatically by
bouts of
night lightning—and not a bit
intimidated
by the round
rumbles accompanying it—now,
here and there,
rough and stiff
tufts of stubborn
shaggy green—have begun
to uncurl—
each discreetly
extending its boundaries
eventually—to beget bulbs;
creamy mellow smooth profusions of petals
of tender pink
and sheer white
and vulnerable yellow—and each swirl
somehow comprised
of such—an impossibly
more ethereal
material—than that
rough reedy
stalk which had yielded it
as to offer—even men,
who rush
after rocks
and never surrender—
a new opportunity
to once
again lighten-
up
and become their own children.
