Forcing the Amaryllis

With its texture like skin (veins, even
The heft of flesh in the stalk), I wait a year
For its appearance. Something ancient
In the ear, the ode or elegy, some song
Calls it out. They say we have receptors
In our joints that sense the earth,
But we don’t hear them when they call.
Can we summon them, I wonder, make
The dendrites sing? What syncronicity
That would be, if I could reach into
The body, and command it to bloom.