poetry

passerby

To whim-water the drought-stricken seed of our dim, near-forgotten and purest place...

Screamingly silent on a stilt of stem,
The bold and dew-drunken morning bloom
Dares the whole of neglected nature—
The mad world and all its gleeful gloom,
Pavement-parched and scarcely rooty—
To brave a still breath on just the glimpse
Of its singular split-second beauty.
All about us pirouette the proofs;
Tirelessly toil do even the smallest forms,
With forlorn effort stretch these tiny truths
On a hope to relieve our furrows of face,
To whim-water the drought-stricken seed
Of our dim, near-forgotten and purest place
Amidst the miracle of what blushes around us.
With swift feet and tangled intention,
We walk over, pass by or forgetfully fuss
The spirit of serenity as if it were strange,
While, surrounded, we are blatantly begged
By the very cure for our myopic mange:
To stop a step, shirk the superfluous,
And turn to flatter the flower behind us.


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