Screamingly silent on its stilt of stem,
The bold and dew-drunken morning bloom
Dares the whole of our neglected sphere—
This mad world with all its gleeful gloom,
Pavement-parched and scarcely rooty—
To brave a still breath on just a glimpse
Of its singular split-second beauty.
All about us pirouette the perfect proofs;
Tirelessly toil do even the smallest forms;
With forlorn effort stretch these tiny truths
On the chance to reframe our furrowed face,
To whim-water the drought-stricken seeds
Of our dim, near-forgotten and purest place
Amidst the miracle of what blushes around us.
Yet, with swift feet and trip-tangled intention,
We walk on, briskly balk or too-often fuss
Within sight of serenity as if it were strange,
While, disappearingly surrounded, we are but begged
By such budding balms for our myopic mange:
Just stop a step, go quiet, calm-simplify—
Flatter, instead, the flower’s butterfly.