Quiescent but not acquiescent,
Curled tightly inside a rough brown corm
The soil is my bed
Not asleep, not dead
I shelter in place
Muffled damp beneath the surface
Silently gathering myself into myself
This empty spot in the garden is occupied
How can absence feel so fully present?
Only circadian clocks keep proper time
There's no use in prying out from the ground
To call me beautiful, for I know otherwise
My beauty is not in anyone's eyes
It is inchoate within this dull place
Not ready to showcase in a vase
No, depth and dark is what is wanted
Unseen, root tendrils recharge the core
Pushing deeper, deeper, until
Wan and shy, narrow leaves erupt
Reaching out to the sky
Gathering rays of golden energy
Power up swords of my flowering entity
Then you will see and think that you know
But you don't, I don't either
It is not comprehensible
All those purple petals and shafts of green
Die back down, dispensable.
I emerge from bipolar depression like my irises emerge from the dank soil.