The hyacinth emerges headlong dying,
one of the colors of ongoing
and good-bye,
its odor my very body’s smokeless burning,
its voice
night’s own dark lap.
Above ground, the crown of flowers tells the wish
brooding earth stitched inside the bulb.
In another kingdom, it was the wick
the lamp cradled, strands
assembled in rapt slumber.
Tonight it’s a branching stair
the dead climb up to a hundred eyes enthroned,
and yet the hair I climb down
toward an earlier dream
and what I’ve always known:
Whoever lets the flowers fall
suffers his heart’s withering
and growing scales,
whoever buries that horned root
inside himself becomes the ground
that sings, declaring a new circumference
even the stars enlarge by crowding down to hear.