Hyacinth grows up with its heavy
head, so solid even with its
dome of star-like flowers and
fragrance lighter than breath.
The wet ground is not far enough
below it; it becomes part of
the hyacinth’s appearance and
breathes its own heavy odor.
When the wind blows, it shakes
from base to top and cannot bend
without breaking. Poor flower
that cannot save itself. I stoop
down face to face with it, mine
so clearly blemished in this clean
spring light against the hyacinth’s
pearl-smooth petals. What the flower
finds to mingle with: the spring wind
that rushes by, the blown up leaves,
the dirt black ground that crushes
its one poor foot planted there.