in

and only in

the pale, dead light

of the full moon

the stoic bulb stirs,

fixed to the thin stalk

of violet and gold blurred

then spout wings wide like hawks

reaching each for a star

casting from loam a silver glow

then spread seeds near and far

scarlet tinged motes high and low

and bathed in that light

the bloom sings a tune

which would feeble men of might

and gift meager souls with boons

though no sooner there then gone

every petal bursts to flame

she would never see the dawn

for then all men would change her name