God, the Father, is Different
from his Son and the Holy Ghost
Two peonies, a couple, side by side,
One larger, lighter (that’s except its heart),
The other made of heartbreak in its wide
And darker oval, beauty like a dart
To harm us, both are perfect in their ways,
A paradox. If one is perfect in
Its shape and frilliness and can amaze
Us with its style, then can it be a sin
To say the other is perfection, too,
Since it is different? Can a thing ideal
Be matched with an ideal that has more blue
Mixed in with utter pinkness? Can pink steal
Our hearts as perfectly as can the old
One? Sacredness lurks in each different fold.