As for man, his days are as grass:
as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.
For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone.
–Ps 103:15-16
The orchid on the porch blossomed today—
the same tropical that languished for two
years with no bloom, just those long, sinewy
blues—vines that looked like old lady leg veins.
Then, it flowered—soft textures, but petals
that never moved, like mounted butterflies.
The orchid book says to stop watering
right before you think it’s enough, which doesn’t
help much—I’m missing those instincts.
It’s like when I read that deep calls to deep,
am I hearing plinks in pails, rain-barrels?
Is it the echo in a rock quarry?
Is it the call of the orchid that thrives
in low light, stony ground, little water?
