~ (Thismia rodwayi)
There's a small, red-orange flower
that pokes up like a tongue from under
damp forest cover, as if without
stem and leaves.
The plant guides say it doesn't
have any green pigment allowing
absorption of energy from light—
Perhaps it was born under
a serious star, on a broody
night. Perhaps it gets by
through a kind of ironic
detachment: wanting little,
it's often overlooked
despite its lightbearing
name. Like it, I wish I could
slip, subterranean, through life.
How can our cracked,
exhausted hearts brave the elements,
so far below, as if in a well? Above,
bits of blue show through clouds.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
