1.
Show up, I say to myself. Grounding down
into this moment, the dog’s wet nose,
tingle of too hot coffee. Here, I say, meaning now
and yes and beyond. Open, I say, ribs cracking
pulling, pulling. In my dream last night, cherry trees
festooned with blossoms. In my dream last night,
cautious reappearance. I passed tree after tree,
thinking I should stop, should take a picture,
somehow share this opulence of petal.
2.
A friend gave me an orchid the florist gave to her
saying it was overripe, berries gone soft
fizzing with sugar, melons liquefying,
the blooms pendulous, full moons hanging
vibrating with bounce, saxophone notes
staked to verticality.
3.
Bamboo sways, and the world is puddles
larger than my wingspan, mud-splattered
legs, wind whispering wet, wet.
Something has broken. Something has opened.
I am overripe and turning rancid,
bee heavy, pollen crusted,
am splitting open, am blooming.
I am the most inelegant of flowers.
