For the Flowers
And so the heart of man may search, and to some degree, may find
A soul, some rest, perhaps the sublime.
Encircle the globe in ships with sails. With pen and paper, inscribe.
Scour the earth. Sinner and saint trade their lives for more time.
There's unrest in the depths of us all.
Father Adam taught us the art, Mother Eve heard the slither say.
Disloyalty, deceit murdered their hearts, and it does so today.
But to gaze upon a lonesome beauty-the wildflower, heavenly grace-
Weave a text of tender kindness,
Richest hue in dreadful place.
Your stem and spindly root made a home of sand and clay;
Thorn and thistle all about you, leaned in close that stormy day.
Your radicle descended far 'neath the gritty ground,
And you emerged, the raining stopped,
And parted the dark clouds.
And as holy, holy, holy
kissed your face, the marvelous light,
Thorn and thistle hated you, for you were his delight.
You are the flower of the field-
You don't toil, you don't spin.
But, lending shade to the least among you,
Open yourself that all may come in.
Turn now your velvet pedal face towards Heaven,
Or bow, if you're compelled.
For the Maker of your blossom blue
Has snuffed my want for hell.
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