by Connie Wanek
A flower needs to be this size
to conceal the winter window,
and this color, the red
of a Fiat with the top down,
to impress us, dull as we've grown.
Months ago the gigantic onion of a bulb
half above the soil
stuck out its green tongue
and slowly, day by day,
the flower itself entered our world,
closed, like hands that captured a moth,
then open, as eyes open,
and the amaryllis, seeing us,
was somehow undiscouraged.
It stands before us now
as we eat our soup;
you pour a little of your drinking water
into its saucer, and a few crumbs
of fragrant earth fall
onto the tabletop.
(Lovely poem! I found it here)
Small wonders-- blooms on our walkway this October morning!
"The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly."
"Satisfy us each morning with your unfailing love,
so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.
Give us gladness in proportion to our former misery!
Replace the evil years with good."
"On this June day the buds in my garden are
almost as enchanting as the open flowers.
Things in bud bring, in the heat of a June noontide,
the recollection of the loveliest days of the year -
those days of May when all is suggested, nothing yet fulfilled."
- Francis King
Photos • Poems