One day,
from this bulbous, earthbound, papery body,
from the shape of a humble onion,
a Lily may grow;
I might emerge in Easter
resurrected and free and trumpeting halleluiah,
Or unfurl and stretch into Tiger’s pose,
soft and silent in robes of shocking orange.
I could wake up in a Turk’s Cap,
Rakishly Istan-bullish, an old world with whole new eyes,
Or keep the watch of Stargazers,
Looking far into the deep unknown with Galileo faith.
Or maybe I’ll find myself in murky swamps,
be in them, and of them,
and still rise above them with
the blushing float of a Water Lily.
For now,
I’ll just grow small and glorious in quiet shadows,
my tiny white face just one of many others
lifted from Valleys
by love.
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