Instructor of Botany

You sneak in from the pond at a sliver of amber

early morning. A thin crack separating earth from sky.

Drop a dead heron on the floor, a limp rope for a neck,

looking like it had been dragged through the mud.

You offer it to me, expect me to be proud of your catch,

when I side eye on a whisper you tell me it is photography,

a series of images playing over-and-over, a time lapse

of a lotus seed that has been lying dormant for years.

You have been watching its bud finally begin to rise. Months

in muddy water priming it, the buildup over time and

how it feels, this anticipation all the days before, how it

pumps to the surface, how it throbs, how the smell

of filth from the bottom fills your lungs. It is at that point

of no turning back, it is standing firm, about to burst through

the heart shaped leaf atop the surface. You want me to come

with you, fall into its purity set to blossom.

You do not want to miss this shot.