If They Think At All, They Think of Life
The sun comes raking down with shining heat
Across the stems, the leaves, and blossoms. They
Expand with vegetable-like slowness, meet
Light spread to it. They never think of gray.
Instead, they meditate in calm on reds and blues,
On lavenders and yellows, sun struck greens,
The oranges of poetry, not bruise-
Like colors of the wound. They are the queens.
Of course, they want some thorns. Who doesn’t? We
Require the pigments of some pains. The reds
Require some under notes of purple. Bee
Stings hover near the petals of rose heads.
Though death is never far away for these,
They flower widely, open, full, at ease.