Reverence

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The flowering, peony perfection, flares

Out wide, for you?  Emphatically not, no,

You do not matter to it.  Your affairs

Are zilch.  It does not care.  It does not grow

For you.  It grows in glory for its own

Mauve destiny.  The blossom flanges out

For fates beyond your pettiflogging groan.

The bloom lives through a realm rejecting pout.

The petals rage not there for you to see

Them, nor to be unseen upon the air

Of May, and not for vision for us, we

Both you and I to make our souls to stare.

  Such blooms supernal are for life, for God.

     It matters not one whit if we be awed.

©  Phillip Whidden