The Orchid Keeper's Dream

I’ve always wanted to be the one

who fills in the blanks. At night I conjure

lips pressed to the usual hollows,

the spaces beating hummingbird wings,

hear my voice breathe warmth into

the room where we began, where we

would begin—hands signing instructions

for touch in seven lost languages.

*

Maybe you think I’m talking about

emptiness, about regret. I’m not.

Greenhouse heat fills the days,

life is dappled with bloom. At dusk

the sun slants through glass

and the slender curves of stems

bend toward grace. Note how

each petal holds the light inside it.

Note that the petals don’t exist.

You can’t imagine their delicacy,

the dazzling, invisible air.