The Cactus Blossom
“Even a cactus
needs water,”
she says.
And somehow,
amidst the errands and chores,
she finds the time
to tend her garden.
Everyday, rising before dawn,
she helps her son
into his steel chariot.
For 40 years
she has fed him,
changed his diapers,
responded to the gurgled language
only she can understand.
And when the day is finally done,
and he is back in bed
and has pulled her to his chest
in a trembling hug,
she whispers, “I love you” in his ear
and makes her way
back to the garden.
There among the hollyhocks
and roses
the cactus has opened
its one giant blossom,
exuding a rich,
otherworldly fragrance
into the night.
She alone is the witness
to this moment:
the seldom explosion
of its flower.
Tomorrow it will be shriveled
as a tissue,
and all anyone will see
is a cactus: spiny and limbless.
Only she will know
what beauty can arise
from such thorns.
This poem was written years ago, inspired by a friend and fellow gardener.