
Katherine Ingram, Contributor.
I couldn’t bloom today
but I will tomorrow.
I’ll stretch out as wide as I can go,
and scream at the sky
until the sun falls down on me in rays,
and my branch ends
turn from buds to petals,
and then to blossoms.
I’ll bloom tomorrow.
I’ll deprive the atmosphere itself of
oxygen if I have to,
and suck moisture from the soil
until my brittle branches
become firm and stiff,
and my petals flicker like eyelids
– and open, pink,
to glare at the world.
I’ll bloom tomorrow.
I can endure anything, everything.
Whatever weight is placed upon me.
Even if I weep.
Even if I cower, and my buds fall with me,
and have to kiss the rough, hard ground
before they taste
the sweetness of the air.
Because one day
I’ll draw them out in their thousands,
millions to see me,
but only
when I decide to deign them
with my presence.
Once a year should be enough.
One day I’ll have them holding on
to my every blink,
to my every half-hearted flutter.
Even the emperors and officials
will gaze at me expectantly,
while I laugh,
prolonging their agony,
and dance with the breeze
to the beating of butterfly wings.
One day
they’ll hold festivals in my honour,
and write poems and songs
about my ethereal beauty.
I’ll be everywhere.
In their perfumes,
their food, their tea.
They won’t be able to get enough of me.
They’ll pass stories about me
from generation to generation
(whispered half in fear
and half in admiration),
and make me into a symbol
so I can live forever.