Sunday, May 13, 2012


It pauses to lightly touch the petal,
Calloused fingers dragging across the silk.
It, yes -- it, casts a shadow on the pink,
And reds, and yellows on the scarred meadow,
Tiled; individual collages
Of fractal symbols; a yearning that lifts,
That compels it to be more than he was,
Than he is now, to lift his head higher
To balance his essence on a slender
Stem, to break out of the It and into
The beauty of acknowledgement, become
More than the neutral, the benign being,
To move past the observer and become
The observed, to pass the meadow on his
way to his own garden, filled with rows of
Alstroemeria, the pinks, and reds, and
yellows that all have a Name of their own.

© Jacob Donley 2012