Brilliant, vibrant blooms
bursting eroticism
you offer up your glory
a shining rejoice
for the illuminated beams
that feed and fuel your Be-ing
yellow, unfolding buds reflect
the light pouring upon you from above
bell-shape and buxom pattern refracting
the dark, dank blanket of warmth and seed
of earth and soil, water and air
yet every year the dusty and dry summer comes
and you like a ship passing in the harbor
pass like a faint breeze blowing in the afternoon sun
petals browning and wilting in an ephemeral wind,
emerald stems fade and you fall back
into a bland, depleted soil
into a shallow, barren ground where suburbs and cement,
skyscrapers and excrement lay rotting like 40-ton whale carcasses
washed up on these warm nights, in these San Diego bays
and still the hand of time plays on
marching toward no culminating end
no grand finale
no final location where we all just throw our hands up and exclaim,
"Yea! We're here!"
and "We finally made it!"
instead, only the same tick tock
that vigilant repetitive pattern
of on and on and on
in and out, ebbing and flowing
to and from
no end point and no beginning
only this
bursting into blazing glory and
fading
(if we're lucky) with grace and ease.
Yes, only this.
