A flower trembles in frosty wind,
not searching for its place in this life
or its moment in time
or a time to say, “I’m home,”
as a semblance of not harboring strife.
Without desperate desire
for an echo of loneliness to budge
the emerging blind tear
as it crawls over crosses to bear
in days sinking too deep to judge.
Without feeling of joy or anticipation
or a flail of sadness
waiting for the time of day or night
when God whispers Her lullaby,
singing to sleep the madness.
Oh, what a gift to be a flower,
to be still in the trembling wind.
A gift to be received
in the serenity of a heart
belying an intention to sin.