Amaryllis
Asleep in a year-long night,
She stands, gazing at stars thought eternal
While outsiders with hope-filled eyes cling to buds.
Then, the sun.
The trumpet of red petals.
The bow to a distant dawn begging for embrace.
She not only stands.
She reaches.
She touches.
But the sun is fickle, and night a bottomless belladonna.
She is crimson for a week,Then, weak as her gray sets in.
Lips peel back in a swan song,
And her green fingers fan in a farewell to the sun,
Short visit though it was.
The hope is gone when her dance is done
And the trumpets die away.
One last note in the dusk.
One last petal on the dining room table.
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