Falling through the orchid whorl we two whirl
as one, spiraling fragrant circles toward
our center, swim healing anther, then curl
and push, surviving stigma, flow forward
beyond ovule and ovary down, down
to our history’s root, breathing pure air
formed 84 million years before. Crowns
of past lives and legends adorn your fair
hair, my scarred skull, informing our deepest
senses, calling images of Orchis—
son of nymph and satyr—to us, tempest
of his lust leading to death and then this:
rebirth and bloom, grace populating earth
with beauty, proving what redemption’s worth.
Roger Armbrust
November 13,
2013
