First camellia blossom,
tight coiled
like a drop of blood,
not ready yet,
not ready yet to spread.
But elemental as that,
as blood on a neck
a cut
a breach
an opening up.
Tight, there, as a drop of blood,
the place where spring
will rip through winter
sending it
in a full splattering of blossoms,
sending it over all.
Blossoms,
blood of something else than us
announcing change to something,
something else than us.
And we, nonetheless, witness it coming
in the loosening knot
tied up by green,
in the green slipping,
and wonder, without knowing,
wonder suddenly about ourselves.
Wonder where the change in us is growing,
where it will begin,
and why we can’t see it coming,
can’t find the green, the budding.
Can’t tell when
and where it’s splitting.
And wonder why we can’t grasp it,
change,
grasp and change it,
change.
