Sonnet 157

To write for masses or the rarest few;
To penetrate, or keep it floral light?
Full limned, the flowers’ pistil can’t imbue
The pleasure brought by blossoms at first sight.
Yet like the humble bee we are deceived,
Though his deceit for higher purpose sure;
And his reward not perfume but sweet need,
That nourishes his forms with nectar pure;
But in our readings we such worth do find,
That sweet ambrosia that sustains the soul,
Yet deep or superficial, to one kind,
Each finds its food of purpose in this goal.
Still of this plight, my thoughts are often these;
To pollinate for purpose, or appease?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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