The Intensity of the Geranium
At seven when I wake
the room is dark.
Slowly on pink curtain the geranium is outlined,
its upsprawling, pungent, jagged leaves defined
by the returning light, precise and stark,
its shape more present as the colour is still black,
but now a rosy opalescence strokes my mind
as through the chink a cloud-puffy kind
of sunrise peeps with morning's hopeful ache.
I have felt so futile and alone,
pottered unproductively for days
wondering if I'd done all I'd ever do.
The geranium is quite still though it has grown
huge and its intensity impresses this sunrise
with its self-stress, promising mine back too.
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