There is no proclaimed flower nor yet no
Ascribed weed immured by fate within it’s
Hour, adjudged by outward grace alone;
But in her scented glory yet she sits
Assessed of worth there sole by sight and smell,
Rude soiled, shamed by vermin that do crawl
Between the petals of her blossom’s shell—
To ravish, plunder or to heartless gall.
Where is the story that she proudly holds
The clods of earth protecting them from rain
Or of the nectar that sustains the fold;
Her simple essence that assuages pain,
The quiet labors which afford each breath,
Or of that form to nourish yet in death.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.