Each morning at least one
new - larger than two open hands
held together: candlewick blacks,
gold flicker at center,
crimson more intense than a name.
Last night the green calyxes
were clenched, no sign
which would undo, so I got up before dawn
and went out wrapped in patchwork.
With no sound, a loose seam let go
of one crepe corolla. A tremor,
the red unwrinkling of silk,
and the whole unfolded.
The small effort of an early rising
had turned to dazzlement in the sun,
a part of me that needs to witness
infused with indelible blacks
and reds - all the vibrancy
that could be dreamed out of morning.