A clivia blooms, in porcelain parabola
before the sliding door, but once each year.
The soil, echoed in the stand below the bowl,
explodes into forest broadswords. In March,
lime arms, slender, sprout sixteen fingers
with nails of petals, daughters of tangerine
and salmon. When April comes, there will
be dirt and leaf and wood again,
and sometimes oriental blue.

Now, the clivia hits a heroic note,
unheard, but for its screams to be
seen.

© 2003, Amy Hart.