On Seeing a Wild Ginger Blossom For the First Time

You might be mistaken for a bug,
your pointed leaves for legs
(but only three, what kind of self-respecting bug would that be?)
your round body for a carapace,
your anther for eyes
your stigma a mouth.

Is that why you
hide
at the bottom of the stems,
shy as the smart girl
at the dance--afraid some lout might
step on your feet
when you rattle off your name, family, genus, species,
and light requirements?

Or do you fear the spotlight,
afraid that you will have to show who you really are
and no one will like you?
Are you waiting to be discovered,
expecting to be touched
by the hand of fate
that plucks the ugly duckling out of the barnyard
and sets her down in a castle
where she should have been
all along?

Your life is short,
and so perhaps you wish to live it
on your own terms,
sheltered and secure
in your delectable green canopy bed,
but your wish
is not yours to command.
Today you find yourself exposed,
vulnerable
and confused.
Then you are surprised
to find that when you are seen
for who you really are
you are greatly loved,
and though you may not find your way
to the castle bouquet
you will be sought after
at every ball
and you will never
ever
again
be mistaken
for a bug.