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
David Fekete 