My wild wild
cynics, otherwise
known as Cymbidium
in a world of blooming
madness, they rank
amongst the beautiful
and the hardy, the
delicate and tardy,
often gloriously difficult
and strange sticky
targets as perhaps
the most fabulous of all,
this, I say, after being
duped year after year
brought to tears
from a knawing
creepy snail, able
to impale the tiny
tender shoots, hiding
in the roots until sundown
they gobble my prize,
having waited for an
entire season, one year
to snag a stem or two
of brilliant yellow, or
mellow maroon,
the white will delight
with a tinge of pink
smack on the center,
I have miraculously
entered the year of
the hothouse babies,
proof positive that
these creatures are
more than human,
they have proven to
flourish beyond belief
in a dim and warm
room full of sweaters
and furs and swanky
dresses, there in the
safe haven of a
thermostat and
pale light, the
miracle of life
bursts forth from
beaten leaves, victims
of the brutal seaside
winds and rains,
chilly fog and snares
of sunlight (only on
occasion), I have come
upon the true secret
of care: be aware,
catch them in the
act, the birthing
and like a fine
midwife, deliver the
goods inside to the
incubator, strewn with
high heeled shoes
they take a cue and
put forth the finishing
touch for their mama:
original sin in a floral
form, fragrant and mellow
newly born.


©J.W.WINSLOW 11/1/11