In May, treasures buried in the park dead-ending
Fifth Avenue appear on three-foot stems: shiny
pods that break open with the thrusting
of a thousand buds becoming one purple pom-pom.
A long line of them, proceeding amid duller sedge and
hostas like swans paddling a leafy pond. Or fireworks
over the river. Grand as a fleet of tall ships sailing
into the harbor, these Persian onion flowers
nodding in the breeze at passersby. The closest
I will ever get to the Zagros Mountains eclipsed
by a woman head to toe in red reaching over the ironwork
at the path’s edge to snap their necks one at a time.