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