The Blossoms of the Night-Blooming Cereus

In weeks, the pimple of green on the side of the stem
grows outward, bends as the blossom head expands,
encased in its brachts, swelling day by day,
'til the tip whitens, the growth attains its goal.

That evening, the blossom unfurls, pressing sepals down,
revealing slender petals of cream
and pistils like fairy's hair,
a bold stamen asserting its power in the middle of them.
In two short hours, the the blossom reaches its fullest extent,
eight inches wide of loveliness, exquisite in the darkness
against the tall greenery, awaiting the moth to fertilize.

It blooms all night, this creamy creation, but in dawn's first light,
the flower folds and fades, the brachts close over it again;
in two short days, the flower that was
is necrotic, black, and falls.
Left behind is a nub that may become red fruit.
It depends on the success of the insects.

I am not like the night-blooming cereus.
I cannot force my energy and love into one magnificent display.
My blooming takes years, my fruiting takes decades,
and my life lasts many nights
in which no response to my being occurs.
I may need to wait for an inner light or an outer force
before I can reach fruition,
but I will grow and will open my petals of mind and heart
and will expose myself to possible rejection
or being overlooked,

because staying closed up, unblooming,
defeats the purpose of life,
would make me wither before I've lived,
like the night-blooming cereus.

From The Blossoms of the Night-Blooming Cereus, © 2005, Publish America, Inc. - www.publishamerica.com