There is so much rain. I need a flower poem!
A dried bundle of seeming death
in the dark and silence,
my winter hyacinth.
First roots grow slowly.
Then her densely folded, tender tip
emerges out the bulb.
Tiny leaves are blanched naked,
cold white grubs.
From the downstairs cold closet I carry
the clear glass full of white ghost tendrils.
My table overlooks a little valley
with its flash of the bay,
morning light blinding through large windows.
Sunlight touches the leaves,
within hours, a faint chlorophyll blush.
The first blue-purple bud
opens like sunrise.
Her scent distracts my work
with its subliminal song.
Firm stalk, lavender bloom.