The Lily Always Hangs On Its Head

The bud of the lily is closed. You
 
haven’t the foggiest idea why. You want it
to soar when deployed.
 
 
You want a little zeppelin with propaganda.
 
To leave behind a paper trail.
 
 
The blossom engineered as if with goldbeater’s skin
seems close to inflated. Or,
 
caught up in the atmosphere, fly-by-night.
 
 
You look again at the stem. Upon which nods the head
of a Pelican!
 
And that is how you would leave it if addressed.
 
 
But there is always another version. Where the Pelican
sticks out its neck.