ODE TO MY PANDEMIC AMARYLLIS

I coddle the ochre-umber
knob of you
into the old goldfish bowl
I’ve stoked with compost,
set you on the sill above the sink,
so as I scrape plates
and suds tumblers,
I can overlook the fear
that’s blooming in the vase
of my chest. O Amaryllis,
I await your first green
tongue eking out
for taste of sunlight,
then the staunch stalk arising.
Soon, a perfect minaret
will tip your stem,
pry itself open. When it can
no longer contain
the throb of blossoming—
a trilogy of trumpets blaring red.