I used to lie in wait to see the clover open Or close, But never saw it. I was too impatient, Or the movement is too subtle, Imperceptible And more than momentary. My five-year-old self would tire of waiting And when I looked again – All closed for the night! I missed it Once more. Cinematographically I have registered the opening of escholtzia On an early summer morning. It gave me a sharp awareness of time passing, Of exact qualities and values in the light, But I didn’t see the movement As movement. I didn’t with my own direct perception see the petals moving. Later, on the film, they seemed to open swiftly, But, at the time, Although I stared And felt time not so much moving as being moved in And felt A unity of time and place with other times and places Yet I didn’t see the petals moving. I didn’t see them opening. They were closed, And later they were open, And in between I noted many phases, But I didn’t see them moving open. My timing and my rhythm could not observe the rhythm of their opening. The thing about poetry is you have to keep doing it. People have to keep making it. The old stuff is no use Once it’s old. It comes out of the instant And lasts for an instant. Take it now Quickly Without water. There! Tomorrow they’ll be something else.