You go at night. You like
the shadows spreading veils
over the meadow that wets your hands
while you look for your flower.
It's not the daisy to fit your buttonhole;
it's not the hiding violet or fleshy rose.
You look for the shy, glittering bud
in scenty grass recess.
On your knees, you find pearly petals,
they open at your touch;
you savor the sweetness of blossoming
as your flower blooms, dies on your lips
and fingers to come to life again
and again die.