Flower Grams

God strews about His news without a blossom,
though He'd prefer some seedlings were nearby;
it's not He can't without them plant so awesome,
but so His view they grow to beautify.

All flowers hold His powers told anew
with prayer the eye can barely spy at first;
some botany, theology and too
some art we need to chart His seed dispersed.

The goldenrod has told us God exists,
in thirty kinds of flowers our minds behold
its big invasive vigor--O atheists,
you might as well deny the spell of gold.

A bud's color shows God's eternity,
the hue within is true infinity,
its own undying tones' variety
quite is akin to His divinity.

The Triune God shown by the nodding trillium,
that sigh to set their triune petals low
with stunning heads so unlike red sweet William,
draws honor three in one, a free tableau.

Clearcut the bachelor's buttons match the tincture
of Incarnation's male display of blue,
His belly button tells they cut the cincture
all we attach, and He was bachelor too.

Few strive so fleet and thrive--like sweet daylily,
which stay for just a day then must be gone,
to grin a lot again though not look silly,
so He the Light might re-ignite the dawn.

The butterfly bud is but a dud at first,
Christ's natural home a catecomb of power,
the larva's hewn cigar cacoon will burst,
display Transfiguration's bigger flower.

The bird of paradise is there like heaven,
racemes aglow, it gleams corolla bright,
red stamen sticks are rayed to six or seven,
with plumes that shine in blooms enshrining light.

                             -- by Pete Voelz       1999