What if, in mid-winter, you threw open your door,
and instead of soggy leaves and drifts of snow
you found yourself face to face with a world
drenched in green and swept with flowers?
If you weren’t so accustomed to this knee-deep
technicolor summer that crept in almost without
your notice—leaves, stems, buds, blades, blossoms—
or if, suppose, you would be leaving in the morning
never to return, if this was your very last chance
to drink in the sight of these red-veined purple petals,
wouldn’t the wonder of them seem a gift, a blessing?
Wouldn’t your eyes spill over with thanks?
Wouldn’t you feel that everything that brought you
to this moment was destined, and worth it after all?