Heather Saunders Estes

This is the season my hyacinths bloom in their bulb glasses. Some yellow narcissus like tiny daffodils are nestled in large dishes covered with clear marbles and pebbles. Their scent is welcome in winter. This poem is in my third book, All in Measure: A Book of Hours 2020-2022. Bundle up and stay dry for next atmospheric river coming to San Francisco in two days!

Paperwhite Narcissus

Only water is required
for the bulb to build root threads.
The roots coil and tangle,
thin worms in base of the glass vase,
pale, like something beneath the ground.

Growing in silence, in dark,
in weeks, a white nub
pushes through the bulb’s onion skin.
Knows its blind way up to the sky.

Nub becomes a sprout, a spear, blanched stems.
Out in sunlight, chloroplasts
green the stalks.

Bud swells.
Butterfly of petals strain
against the translucent, green skin,
moving, shifting, turning.

Morning releases more petals
and powerful perfume
to call dreaming bees, and me.
I lean into the flowers,
close my eyes.

Every winter, in the still dark days,
I participate in this ritual of hope.
Outside, deep in the cold earth, other bulbs
are wrapped in slow sleep.

are wrapped in slow sleep



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Paperwhite
Narcissus

 

Only water is required

for the bulb to build root threads.

The roots coil and tangle,

thin worms in base of the glass
vase,

pale, like something beneath the
ground.

 

Growing in silence, in dark,

in weeks, a white nub

pushes through the bulb’s onion
skin.

Knows its blind way up to the sky.

 

Nub becomes a sprout, a spear,
blanched stems.

Out in sunlight, chloroplasts

green the stalks.

 

Bud swells.

Butterfly of petals strain

against the translucent, green
skin,

moving, shifting, turning.

 

Morning releases more petals

and powerful perfume

to call dreaming bees, and me.

I lean into the flowers,

close my eyes.

 

Every winter, in the still dark
days,

I participate in this ritual of
hope.

Outside, deep in the cold earth,
other bulbs