Just as I wonder

    whether it's going to die，

    the orchid blossoms

    and I can't explain why it

    moves my heart， why such pleasure

    comes from one small bud

    on a long spindly stem， one

    blood red gold flower

    opening at mid-summer，

    tiny， perfect in its hour.

    Even to a white-

    haired craggy poet， it's

    purely erotic，

    pistil and stamen， pollen，

    dew of the world， a spoonful

    of earth， and water.

    Erotic because there's death

    at the heart of birth，

    drama in those old sunrise

    prisms in wet cedar boughs，

    deepest mystery

    in washing evening dishes

    or teasing my wife，

    who grows， yes， more beautiful

    because one of us will die.