Aren’t we pathetic?
The inertia in the stance of our stems,
The solidarity of our collective spine
tall as the mountain faith alone could uproot.
What the sun-beat calls foolish we consider
resolute come torrent or tempest wind.
And where to begin with our pistils shooting blind into sky?
No, but not for naught!
Always the fruit of another stamen’s labor to
Remind us of what we were planted in this field to do.
What a passerine might perceive as
futile vanity—
the way our crimson petals pop;
tiny fists of immortal spring—
Is in fact the instinct to survive,
if not gracefully.
No winter could defy us our rightful bloom,
no weed, our beauty.
And alas,
Our coat of sepal,
the wind that drives open the stigma and pushes the pollen down down
The root, of course the root, always thirst and raw lust
Is perpetually satisfied if only we would let it.
All so that we can begin again.
Our river, One River,
our God, one God.
2 Chronicles 20:17
