Becoming

If you don’t mind, I’d like to share about a not-

yet-blooming amaryllis, stalks taut in brown dirt,

 

flame tucked tightly beneath an emerald skirt.

I know a little about seahorses, eggs which the female,

 

spiraling out from sea grass, loosening her grip on his tail,

deposits into distended emptiness. Slimming, swelling,

 

the world might be clover or clever—depends on whether

I’m on my way to the store for balloons or ballasts,

 

whether, last night, outside my window, there was hooting

or shooting. There’s nothing wrong with knowing only a little

 

about wheeling in unison, that pre-dawn dance in which skin

may morph from mauve to brown. I’ve a mania for saints like Francis,

 

blesser of narwhals and wolves. While I acclimate to the dawn,

a seahorse grabs hold of a piece of coral, begins its gestational wait.