Dogwood

Now is the time of the dogwood.
This wait is finished.
There was no bursting forth,
no overnight glory;
no one can walk away this time
claiming they watched unaware.

Each blossom grew in a shadow,
brittle and green at first, but
larger, lighter, whiter by the day.
The coming was always next week.
Those red bud bled a prophecy
as each flower followed the moon,
and butterflies danced in the morning,
so certain the coming was soon.

And at last the dogwood shimmered
in that very same straight light of noon,
and even the forest shadows
came leaping up out of their tombs.


(Kaleidoscope, Sentinel-Record, Hot Springs, 1983 or so)