The Flower

And now for a little Victorian excess to remove you momentarily from the dry, terse flavor of modern prose that is so common among today's writers. Language is a vehicle for thought, and in this result-oriented age, we have traded in our Duesenbergs for Hondas. Not that this is always a bad thing - we get better gas mileage and can drive for 300,000 miles - but every step toward the utilitarian has generally been a step away from the aesthetic, and while we may be able to take more and lengthier journeys, in the end we will certainly not enjoy them as much. The trick, as in most things, is to find a mean between the two.


The Flower

The bee dips down through breaths unseen
high o’er the spreading field,
and watches for the crimson queen,
her crown to be revealed.

So many countless blades of grass,
each like the one before,
are giv’n no moment as they pass;
they hide no secret store.

He waits for beauty to display
her singularity,
and as the sun ascends the day,
there can no greater be.