Buds

They rise from a waxy skin covered with spines. Where before there was only the smooth exterior of the columnar cactus they sprout, as if from nothing, into long stems that lift what will be an impossible bloom when the sun sets. In the darkness they will open, white and delicate as falling snow. Through the night they wait for the attention of a moth whose touch will mingle the desires of pollen and egg. Sweet sex. With the first light, the petals will close, sealing the magic of growing fruit. Cloistered, the stem dries in the heat. Life grows from the spark. The flower surrenders and fades. Does it remember the moth, the touch of wings in the night?