Vigilance

If vigilance is what is required.
Let me be vigilant about the rhythms of the world.
Let me mother a bed of dahlias,
Nurturing over months,
Until in late summer,
The budded blooms tease of what’s to come.
Slow and steady.
Calling forth color.
Opening like a hand revealing a tiny treasure.
Let me notice the color of stems,
Some green. Some purple,
And the type of leaf.
Let me hold my worried breath when those leaves droop in the summer afternoon heat,
Thirsty and depleted.
Anxious they will most certainly expire.
And then in the newness of day,
greet them as they stand erect,
as if the heat was life itself
and fed the blazing color of each flower its pigment.
Let me not see just pink and pass it over.
Let me linger until I notice watermelon leading to fushcia,
And coral leading to French rose.
All in the same flower face.
Let me be astound as I cut them,
Realizing the more I cut, the more they bloom.
Let me bring them in,
Choose the right vessel,
Put my hands to arranging,
Even as the flowers themselves determine the shape and flow.
Let me participate and wake up from the magic when all is right and good.
And beautiful.
Let me participate with my dazed presence,
And wake up from the magic spell,
Kissed by the Dahlia prince,
My vigilance rewarded by what
has emerged from dirt
and Love.