Green
spears poke through,
Lifting
their heads upward,
Seeking
the sun.
From a
swollen end,
A streak
of red peeks out.
The
swelling splits,
Revealing
brilliant flowers,
Each a
burst of flaming red,
Trumpet shaped
And
equally boisterous.
After a
few days,
You wilt
and droop.
You stain
my hands
As I
pluck you off.
I mourn
your passing.
But under
the earth,
Inside
the hidden bulb,
Is the
potential for a new day,
Of
radiance and glory.
Amaryllis
anticipation.
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