Their dark leaves are chiming
ascension  ascension
and still they reach up:
wide open, they shimmer
citrus-greens infuse starry-pinks,
stamens so neat: thin capsules
pressed in relic-gold paint,
each satin throat clean as epiphany.
It’s hard to believe they wrestled
up from underground.
Smug inverted parachutes,
they devour sky
distil each scrap of liminal –
disrupt the other of cats.