A flower, just before the bloom,
the way all the buffered blossoms
aren’t building to make a scene
like lips not ready to take the plunge,
can’t get themselves to unfurl until
morning light, or perhaps until the
wind has waxed between the bed
frame and the watering pot, all the
petals oragami-tight. Canoes not
willing to take any weight on board,
except a few brave vessels, open,
slow lambs ears pushing from a
thousand fuchsia mole noses all
pointing toward photosynthesis, all
contemplating, shaking at the bud.
There will be no sprouting today,
no laying out the vases full of tap.
Water has to hide in the pumps for
now, until I can wrench the bulbs
open, clear my throat for pollen.
Until I forget the right words will
refuse to take root in still water.