Outside my window
is a flower, whose name,
as yet, I do not know.

Each day, when I awake,
no matter how late, those
petals are open, blazing

to meet the world. Their lips
are as inviting, as red
and curved as a kiss, and each

day their hue is slightly
different, making each sighting
a distinct event. At the end

of each day, though, they pinch
and close, sealing off
what was once a possibility

to behold. In the morning
others, like this flower, lie,
crumpled and dry, on the lawn.

One morning, I must go out,
just before dawn, and pluck
this flower, before it’s gone.