One of the millions of floral descendants
thinks it springs from Jesse’s tree.
It is a visionary flower. It believes the first flower will come again
only when all of its descendants agree.
Its descendants do not agree;
the iris argues tall and blue, the marigold squat and yellow and smelly;
the lily bows and sings a scent sweet and low as the Odor of Sanctity,
while the Don Juan rose is red and reticent to give off an odor at all.
If there is one flower, it thinks, there will be one mind,
and the offspring of the ros of swich virtu will come again.
So it will set fire to the rural grass,
because grass most easily ignites.
Inflamed with a sense of justice
moth-eaten by jealousy,
the grass will rage against the other flowers,
kill them,
then die.
The monochrome moss that remains
will lift hosannas like heavy stones
to the sole flower.
