When Pentheus [“grief’] went into the mountains in the garb of the baccae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate.
We are not long for this earth, I know– you and I, all our petals incurled, till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow. Is there love anywhere in this strange world?
The agave knows best when it’s time to die and rages to life with such rapturous leaves her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high, she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes
in love at all, she has left it behind to flower, to flower. When darkness falls she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls: bewildered, beheaded. And since love is blind,
she never adored it, nor watches it go. Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow?