Symbolism
Symbolism is a symbolic meaning to represent ideas or qualities.
The cereus plant
The cereus plant is a night blooming plant that has a short life span and is also considered a cacti. This plant can be seen as white or pale shades of different colors. Some of the species of this plant can bloom only once a year for a single. The plants that can sprout these flowers can be any size such as small, thin, and even tree-like. Some cereus plants can produce fruits big enough to eat. This plant can only be found outdoors in tropical climates.
The cereus plant can be compared to Billie Jo, because the plant symbolizes being free and overcoming the Dust Bowl. The two are related, because Billie Jo also later overcomes the dust bowl when she learns how to accept it. "Sometime, while I'm at the piano, I catch her reflection in the mirror, standing in the kitchen, soft-eyed, while Daddy finishes chores, and I stretch my fingers over the keys, and I play."
The cereus plant can be compared to Billie Jo, because the plant symbolizes being free and overcoming the Dust Bowl. The two are related, because Billie Jo also later overcomes the dust bowl when she learns how to accept it. "Sometime, while I'm at the piano, I catch her reflection in the mirror, standing in the kitchen, soft-eyed, while Daddy finishes chores, and I stretch my fingers over the keys, and I play."
Night Bloomer poem
And in the hour when blooms unfurl thoughts of my loved ones come to me.
The moths of evening whirl around the snowball tree.
Nothing now shouts or sings; one house only whispers, then hushes.
Nestlings sleep beneath wings,
like eyes beneath their lashes. From open calyces there flows a ripe strawberry scent, in waves.
A lamp in the house glows. Grasses are born on graves. A late bee sighs, back from its tours and no cell vacant any more.
The hen and her cheeping stars cross their threshing floor. All through the night the flowers flare, scent flowing and catching the wind.
The lamp now climbs the stair, shines from above, is dimmed... It's dawn: the petals, slightly worn, close up again—each bud to brood,
in its soft, secret urn, on some yet-nameless good.
The moths of evening whirl around the snowball tree.
Nothing now shouts or sings; one house only whispers, then hushes.
Nestlings sleep beneath wings,
like eyes beneath their lashes. From open calyces there flows a ripe strawberry scent, in waves.
A lamp in the house glows. Grasses are born on graves. A late bee sighs, back from its tours and no cell vacant any more.
The hen and her cheeping stars cross their threshing floor. All through the night the flowers flare, scent flowing and catching the wind.
The lamp now climbs the stair, shines from above, is dimmed... It's dawn: the petals, slightly worn, close up again—each bud to brood,
in its soft, secret urn, on some yet-nameless good.