Blossom Whine

What grand intelligence is this

that sends its tiny armies to undo, unfold

until every head bursts open?

What shameful mockery

leaves us thus, to hold our faces high

on so slim a stalk?

We, who would preen on every breeze?

But left unblessed, we droop

and sigh instead.

There must have been some lesson in it.

To craft beauty which

must be staked or caged.

Or was it just a drunken afterthought?

Or wager, perhaps — to see who would

overlook so obvious a flaw?

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