A bloom at least 9 or 10 inches across. She only blooms once a year. One flouncy exclamation mark of a bloom. I felt bad for not pulling up a chair and gazing into the face of this flower the entire 48 hours of her existence.
This is not Photoshop. This is real life. I didn't adjust a thing, not even the contrast. Pure flower.
Pure pink-skirted loveliness. I crept outside last night, down the dark driveway, across the walkway, in my nightgown, with my flashlight, for one more look. When the Halley's Comet of flowers puts on a show you really want to be there.
AND. As if all that weren't enough, my sister Dottie sent me a poem. We Moss sisters like to deal poems to each other like hands of cards. This was a royal flush.
LOVE AFTER LOVE
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.