Hyacinth

 

In that jar
a pent-up bulb pushes
a slow green finger through
a flaky purple pastry skin.
Also
inquisitive quick shoots
root white through water
like twisted light-beams,
quick in the night,
writhing, I bet, in wet ecstasy.
Also
In that jar
a type of time ticks off
slow seconds by the year,
and life is tied up and tangled
In that jar.

No, they are not chains:
there is no prison; only
a slow, green, finger through
a flaky, purple, pastry skin.

 

 


December 1968

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Filed under Gardening, My poems, Poetry

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