For years I looked at the waxy blobs
sprouting green stalks from the top,
often wearing little collars that said,
no watering necessary,

which made no sense, conditioned
as I am to watering outdoor plants
for more than half a year and indoor
ones till I drop. Or they do.

But the waxed amaryllis contains
the promise of frilly blossoms if you
just set it on a table, not in direct
sunlight, and turn their bulbous
bottoms every few days.

So I brought one home to watch
the miracle of a living thing that needs
no help from me to thrive, to grow tall,
and, when it knows that it’s time,
to burst forth in petaled profusion.

And now on the dining table stands a
ballerina with gorgeously long legs,
en pointe, of course, her frilly tutu
blossoming creamy with scarlet streaks.

Hello, I say to her as I walk by.
Aren’t you lovely?

And, shy, self-contained thing that she is,
she doesn’t say a word, just stands
a bit taller, as I admire her elegance
so unexpected, so fleeting.