David Fekete

I think you love those flowers because they’re small

So much that several times you showed them to me

I never would have noticed them at all

In fact, I wondered what it is you see

The tendrils are as thin as silken thread

And end in tiny flowers like white spray

So delicate it’s as if moonlight bled

Into dreams that bloom when angels pray

Outside of a coffee shop/bookstore

Different kinds of flowers have been planted

I recalled a chat I had before

Concerning certain flowers the owner wanted

She struggled trying to craft exact language

To paint a picture so my mind could see

The flowers that her memory kept in image

Even talking with her hands to show me

But she succeeded finally to convey

That what they meant especially to her,

Talking on the patio that day,

Was, as she put it, how dainty they were

Frost names flower types in his poetry

Like pale orchises and Rose Pogonias

Flowers aren’t objects of study for me

Their images aren’t in my ideas

Sometimes I ponder why they’re there at all

Why a random, pointless drive of nature

Would evolve some shape so beautiful

Don’t they argue for some kind of Maker?

Now, flowers bloom in my mentality

And delicate as moonlight tiny sprays

Grow in meaning for philosophy

Merit in heavy thought a rightful place