My amaryllis, a five-year-old bulb, my mother
Says it will not flower this year, throw it out;
I resist, ever the contrary child, and am rewarded
With not one but three blooms: candy-colored,
White, and green, three trumpets of the spring.
I’ve muttered resentfully about the snow and wind
Wishing for a green surprise amidst the brown
And then, out of that dry husk, a pale slim spear
Rose skyward, became two leaves that faded
Yellow, decayed to brown, and then another
Spear of green and then an unexpected guest:
A closed promise slowly opening
In sweet song, a flower so large
It almost upsets the plant, and then another,
I weigh the plant down with odd coins
And the blooms rise exalting, extraordinary,
Alien and wondrous among my house plants.
The world’s still at odds,
I’m grumpy at my job,
My love life is….
But I proved my mother wrong:
I have three flowers from a husk.
So points to me and you
And to anyone who through hope
Leaves a husk alone
And lets it flower.