I saw you bloom in winter, bright, luminescent, the silk of fresh petals. And I never bought any gloves, though I said I would; hands all but frozen, canvas shoes damp through in the mud and wet of a french winter on the coast. But you looked hardly discouraged, fresh and new under the rain. You amaze me still. And I am never prepared anymore: I left my pocket knife across the ocean and my hat in a friend's purse in another city. I wasn't ready to see you arrayed in all your enthusiasm; wasn't ready to pick you, place you next to my bed and tell you all my midwinter thoughts each morning. I walked past, left you in the park, asked myself why I thought you'd opened for me. I'll think of you at Christmas, and at New Year's, and there will be others, poinsettias and orchids. But you showed yourself to me in the park, in that cold rain. You you amaze me still.