Knowing of the Orange Blossom

The orange blossom stands by the fence in my back yard,
flowering towards freedom,
or at least, towards the path
that leads away to the road.

I have watched you grow these last ten years.
Each season a miracle unfolds:
death seems to trap itself in your twigs and wooden shoots,
and each year I wonder what will become of you.

But then, as an adolescent shakes off the gawkiness of youth,
you fulfill the promise of your name,
and blossom over my tall fence,
spilling out for all to see.

From my opened study window I watch you,
half in, half out of my garden,
your sweetest scents
remind me of how I used to be.