Bulb Flower


Bulb Flower



The far and withered bulb flower

I planted when I was a child,

long ago shaken by years of wind

and rotted to its core –

now that it has all but disappeared

even as a crust upon the Earth,

has it found shape again in something living,

or backtracked to the volcano heart

of a mythical land?


Does it sigh for the sun or cry

when it hears a frog’s slow croak?

Does it do as I do now, watch

rain fall on stones, or is it part of a low-creepy thing

that lacks shadow and intent?


Does it sleep in the moss or

is it clay for a sculptor’s hungry hands?

Does it float through the seas as a jellyfish

or hop the meadows wild?


The far and withered blub flower

I planted when I was a child,

maybe today I saw it again

in the squirrel crossing the street

or maybe in that great tomato that was

my lunch, it returned

to now nourish my grown-up bones.


© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst



.Published in “Academy of the Heart and Mind” October 2018




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