Flowers live patient lives, only emerging when quiet forces of sunlight, of seasons beckon.
But the blooming. It’s all extravagance. Fanfare.
No one asked for the outlandish coral bursting from the weeping verbena,
No one could’ve imagined it.
I feel I understand better the nature of life, looking upon one so unapologetically orange.
The pot is alive, newborn blooms literally crawling out of it.
There, a budding nosegay creeps, and here bursts a flower that was missing before.
And yet, how slow each change.
On my front porch, a nebula sits, expelling light, expanding by the second, by the light year.
And, just as still as exploding nebulas appear in the canopy, so static seem flowers.
This moment is frozen. Is bursting. Is one breath received. Is forever.