I Am Not Brave
How brave the amaryllis is
emerging naked from the soil,
an umber golden spear to pierce
the heresy of August air.
I am not brave like pilgrim bulbs,
though planted fifty years ago,
still sending offspring to the sky
determined in a hostile sphere
to brave remorseless elements
and kiss the hummingbird in flight
with coronets of newborn pink
that preach the coming of the light.
I am the baptist of the leaves
that peer above the April soil
and tendril hope in emerald verse
to cleanse the pagan garden dirt,
but only lay the nest of that
which must come later. I regret
I'm not the swan of human myth
that floats poetic on a lake
then sings my one seraphic note
upon my death. Indeed I am
but flesh that dies before the bloom
which glows an iridescent psalm.
8/1/19
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