It may be time to revisit
My approach to flowers. Why not
Drop the scalpel, give the petals
A chance to charm, enchant, without being
Exposed—vulnerable to my gaze,
My haste to empirically demonstrate
How all things work: I pick, I cut,
I diagram. I make no time to see
The white orchid for what it is—
Is its whiteness un-pigmented,
Sun-bleached, or washed out, like a cloud?
What secrets would it tell
If I kept my hands tucked in my pockets?
The truth is: I am terrified.
And would much rather magnify, dissect,
Than let things be. I seem to have no use
For what I do not understand—a broad
Category, encompassing:
The orchid, my marriage.
