A Bunch of Flowers
/The flower in the vase
is waiting to be named.
All you Adams –
the flower bids your calling.
By any other name,
the flower is full of itself.
It bides no death
and knows no reason
Garnering inspiration
is a flower's sole purpose.
Its muse is the lightning bolt,
flaming sunlight its passion.
The flower of atonement.
The flower of destiny.
The flower that's aggrieved
with stupor mundi.
A floral crown
for an ossified madonna.
Once blue, as is love,
the colour has wasted.
Terrified of night,
this flower trembles slightly.
A fear of fear itself
being the failsafe of lunacy.
Flowers for men
in iron-wrought cages.
Moonlight through bars
a captive's muse.
In astronomy the flower
defers to starlight.
All astrophysics consists
of light tempered by water.
The apocalyptic flower,
peering through rubble,
a derelict nursery on fire,
the future routed.
Under microscopes, a flower
made of other flowers.
The atom is a god
in this quantum dynasty.
And so, the final flower
returned to its soiled divan.
Asleep in the seed's heart,
and not one bee alive to bear witness.
By Bruce McRae
From: Canada