Poem, held gingerly

It unfolds, like some small flower you scarcely dare hold, for fear you will crush it, shrinking from counting how many petals are crumpled there, as if anxious to let themselves uncurl in a sequence unguessed at. Or what is the color which, reaching air, can become many-shaded, or a shaft of pure hue. It is not yours -- a hand thrust suddenly out from nowhere has presented it to you. There was hardly time to say thanks. The scent overpowered, and you strain after that fragrance never before in your nostrils. A brutish bloom, a delicate blossoming, who can say quite yet what has been visited upon you.