I sit inside, safe from the rain,
a spectator contemplating a specter.
Outside, cup-palmed and graceful,
the calla lily rises through thunder,
stands head-high, as payment
to this storm.
This is my yearly pilgrimage,
this garden my Mecca.
Breath fogs the glass slide-door,
fades my view, and the reflection
I look through.
It's just as well, I don't like her eyes.
Like the sacrificial blossom, proud
in the face of the storm that wastes her,
I want to be
strong and beautiful,
I want to be thought brave.
Sunshine arrives and I kneel,
painted ceremoniously umber and green,
and plunge myself in.