By Linda Fay
Word Count: 281
Rating: G
Summary: A poem about the permanence of things
Is this then the end of Muscari
armeniacum? It is coming time
To close your eyes on hyacinths.
But these flowers are not even ripe yet.
Look. They are still closed up in clusters,
Like little marbles afraid to roll away.
Give them time and they will turn
Into miniature draw-string bags
Upside down, but never empty
Into open-ended hot air balloons
Straining to set themselves free.
There will be time, and time enough
For the infancy of ephemeral worlds
No longer mine. And now I rest
In the knowing that these living amethysts
Will blossom and go on, even after I am gone.
Even after eyes gone blank and blurry
No longer project purple-painted meadows
Onto the deadened crust of my consciousness.
Even after wilted fingers grow too cold
To feel the silk soft flower skin of each immaculate
And infinitely fragile grape bubble.
Look long enough and flowers will become
Conglomerated moons that matter every bit as much
As any midsummer’s orb. But what are we about?
Comparing distant light with close-up color
Both will go on. Even after I am gone.
Even after I no longer smell the shifting air,
The stealthy hint of humid earthiness
Rising from petals crushed beneath my shoes.
Even after I no longer feel tree-filtered heat
Through the slow blood chill that clings to my body
Like funeral clothes, taking over already.
But now I know I have no need of time.
Something has changed. And the all-
important question is no longer the same.
Not, will we go on, even after hyacinths?
But, will they go on, even after us?
There will be time, and time enough.