For the first time in over three years, a single flower bloomed on our hibiscus. I do not give up on plants. The poinsettia from Christmas is still vibrant on the kitchen table. The peace lily my mom carried on the train to Manhattan over a decade ago to congratulate me on my corner office with the big window looking out on 34th Street and 5th Ave is still with me, now divided into many pots in rooms throughout my house.

I don’t give up on plants, but I wondered if the hibiscus would ever bloom again. I’ve been in my own dormant phase, my writing not exactly suspended but slowed. At first it made me nervous. Then I decided that, after a year of daily writing here and elsewhere, it was okay, necessary even, to be quiet for awhile.

There have been all sorts of hang-ups that prevented me from the page–to say nothing of the scant slivers of time–among them the fear of being redundant. Have I just been repeating myself, the needle stuck, the record skipping? During this quiet time, as I’ve continued to read work by my favorite writers, in books and on blogs, I’ve noticed their individual patterns, designs born of repetitions that expand and grow. Like the stamen of a flower, like all patterns found in nature, we speak our geometry.

Already the hibiscus has curled into itself, the spent petals wrapped snugly around the stamen. There was but a moment capture the bloom.