long white pods bruised pink
with a smidgen of green,
on a taut pasty skin.
they tell me of that silent process
in the body's dark enclosure
when a shape finds certainty,
and the eyes are unimpeded by the presence of light.

in the kitchen's warmth a bud splits,
like a small bird's beak.
beyond a heavy crimson reminiscence, I glimpse at
possibilities of a soft inculpable night.

is it a memory this excited flower
is trying to trap? -

if so - it must be a welcome memory at best.