Sleeping bulbousness

round-hipped and heavy-lidded

layers of elephantine skin and promise

you are the India of flora

a subcontinent unto yourself

silk-red as a sari.

 

Having chosen a pot as round

and windowless as your soul

the gardener

in the dark basement

of winter

tucks you into pillows of earth

and waits

and watches

the invisible egg

of gestation

nestled in dirt

a singular

self-satisfied womb

taking all the time you need

and more

no questions asked.

 

And then

with the attitude of royalty

you present yourself.

 

How could we not

long for you?

 

Comes the carpet

long, slow, green

five runners firm

and impervious.

 

Each scarlet bell

a new surprise:

that such majesty

would visit this windowsill

that such nectar and velvet

of carmine and sap

would know from black

to answer to its name

and lift,

open its arms

and bow

to the applauding sun.