The poorest flowers are richer than we know,
drenched in a beauty far beyond our yield,
no Solomons arrayed in all their show
can match a little lily in the field.
We dress our homes with blooms we like so much
and plait the purple larkspurs on our clothes,
the violets feel like velvet to our touch,
our perfume is the aroma of the rose.
Like cloistered nuns whose spirituality
lies hidden behind bars and under veils,
the sanctity of sage is hard to see,
God lurks beneath a daffodil's details.
In all our works of beauty we are rich,
but nothing like a daisy in the ditch.
-- by Pete Voelz 2000
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