Anthesis

It's in the pink dotted, colour combining, unfurling packages of presents for bees, balancing meticulously on a holder unlike a vase because its beauty does not complement the real one.

The vertical patterns are stretched like those marked on skin; a protuberance when touched feels like rollings hills on the smallest scale, reaching from its tips to where the colour has begun.

More or less it twists to wrap around others like a tight package, its unwillingness to open scolded by the season, the people, the bees and the sun.

It's in the complete transformation, begging ovation, and self-sustaining till the season deems right and shuts down the system and leaves it to crumble into the dirt, to cease the fun.

Alas, that time has not reached this soil and its tunnels of water-sucking tubes. The reunition of incandescent beauty and infinite sun has not yet blessed these conscience-questing figures of soulful spheres.

We have not been struck with eclipsed sudden ease.

The blooms are trembling in teardrop encasings.

While we tremble on flat land, and it's not even shaking.

Until, yes, like the crack of dawn, a silhouette forms. Of a striking, beauteous, unfolded dawn of a bloom.