Cyclamens

Wild, wing-petalled cyclamens,
winter flowers that seem part butterfly
or angel; of earth, yet only for a moment settled
or rather, hovering, about to fly again —
both winged and lightly anchored.

Life's purpose seems for this
moment that is entirely itself;
is all that I can know — I know.
All life, dammed behind,
means nothing but that it led to this.