Crepe Myrtle Armory
A pink of seriousness, of solemn frills,
Is roasting in the tropic sun. A breeze
From hottest sultriness and languor spills
Across the flowers and leaves. They are at ease
Though. This is what God made them for and so
They flourish in their purgatory. He
Had thought to torture them and make them blow
In Hell-like air, but in tranquility
The blossoms cope. In loveliness they brave
The searing day and triumph. They implore
Us, strong in weakness, with a message grave
In beauty, that we must engage in war
Against the vicious circumstances of
Our destinies—with something soft as love.