Scribo Scribere

On my desk there stands a white pot,

and, within the white pot, a white orchid.

I see it every day when I sit down to work.

Its petals are full, like fans,

delicately drooping, stacked together in pairs.

When I raise my fingers to the white surface,

the feeling is as one of silk.

Phalaenopsis, I think it is called,

the proper name of it, I mean;

but that I can hardly pronounce

and even more hardly spell.

“White orchid” is how I know it.

Seven buds there are now on it:

it’s a miniature one, at that.

When I was back in college,

the white orchid was my calling card.

I’d place one on the table in the common room

and leave it there for all to enjoy.

The white orchid is beautiful,

but more so mysterious (I think),

with a kind of longing, sensual wonder.

As I sit at my desk working,

the light plays and glints off the flower,

reminding me, always, of the beauty

there is in this world, and how to find it.