I hope for late-flowering -

but the first bloom has yet to appear.

My green fronds remain tireless

and make their way slowly upwards.

Above, something pale, reminiscent

of light, with a hint of stars.

Looking down, there is darkness

mottled with a deeper darkness.

From somewhere food is given

and small air seeps cautiously

in – enough that I can continue

leaf by leaf, extending my thin

spine – hoping that one day

bright arrows will pierce

like Sebastian – the

sudden bolts of being there –

and a great orange flower

will bulge into fullness –

and all the reasons will be clear.

Umbrella Head​