If you follow this BLOG regularly, you know that I am recording the opening of an amaryllis. As you can see, all but three of the trumpets are open. Tomorrow it should be in full bloom.

This afternoon as I thumbed through one of my journals from twenty years ago, I came across a poem I wrote after seeing a photograph (mi retrato) of myself. The poem has nothing to do with today's photograph of an amaryllis except as a further reminder that everything changes.

See How His Lips Are Parted


He will stand there forever,
timeless, straight, eyes fixed
in living, one-hour photo color,
the Headmaster in dark blue suit,
dignified, his students would say,
uncomfortable, his wife notices,
formal, at least.
It's the smile his Mother sees.
His children think
how strange his hair went gray so soon.


More than eyes or smile or hair,
he sees his hands
wishing they could move,
dangle maybe,
break out of stillness like death
arranged by the undertaker.

But he is alive there.
Never mind the hands.
See how his lips are parted.