Blooming

The true art of memory is the art of attention.

- Samuel Johnson

Blooming

I never thought I was the sort of person

to remember the names of flowers.

But as I pass, I am bleeding on crocuses

and cowslips.

I do not remember

the why,

but god, I could tell you the color

of every insect I’ve ever seen

crawling on my geraniums.

I am sure they will find me

with tent worms in my hair,

beetles bedded under my eyelids,

sorry that I’ve crushed the snapdragons

and forgotten to let the cat out.

By that time the pearly wild onions

will have pushed through the skin

of my palms, a carpet of violets

triumphing over my belly, soft

as eiderdown.

I will be something

people are surprised they remember,

the sudden name of a flower,

the precise number of petals

on the final gardenia, the white sky.