Laura Sobbott Ross Mount Dora (Jeff Santosuosso)
We readied the bulbs in the days before
the baby arrived. Full solstice moon
nudging what was curled inside its own
winter sleep; every bulb, nested & rooting.
Miraculous, the way green startled
out, ribboned toward the light--
light that was a new dominion
lording across a tracery of capillaries,
eyelashes, flutter of breath,
the fusing of the soft crown of bone.
I’m talking about the baby,
of course, whose wails shuddered open
from her newly dredged lungs, while amaryllis
pushed and pushed its flame points skyward
till they fell over on their new, floppy necks
into the full-throated red of bell-shaped blossoms.
Originally published in National Poetry Review
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