Just as I wonder
whether it's going to die，
the orchid1 blossoms
and I can't explain why it
moves my heart， why such pleasure
comes from one small bud
on a long spindly stem， one
blood red gold flower
opening at mid-summer，
tiny， perfect in its hour.
Even to a white-
haired craggy poet， it's
purely2 erotic，
pistil and stamen， pollen3，
dew of the world， a spoonful
of earth， and water.
Erotic because there's death
at the heart of birth，
drama in those old sunrise
prisms in wet cedar4 boughs5，
deepest mystery
in washing evening dishes
or teasing my wife，
who grows， yes， more beautiful
because one of us will die.
