Buds (Poetry)

Sealed in cellophane, Spring's fresh bargain buds
were ranked in tubs on supermarket shelves -
small and tightly closed and guaranteed
to last - we freed some, peeled their see-through shells

and plunged thin, bendy stalks into a jar
rinsed of coffee, water-filled, and added flower food.
Anchored now but leaning lazy, as completely unarranged
as woken children are - sleepy lids still glued.

The windowsill received them - gave them room to stretch
and yawn, unwrap onion-brown striped paper skins
from craning necks while looking round for light,
covers loosening and showing yellow promise at the rim.

But it was more than sun pretending through the glass
that coaxed them out, kidding it was warm,
the welcome and kind voices did as much
to encourage each to brave life and perform.

Our reward was watching the quick burst
of bud to flower spared harsh rain and frost -
a short adoption, random but intense -
their perfection brief but near miraculous.