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