Flowers

And the hunter’s meat bouquet
would gather itself to say:

The blood from all our brothers
now it dries up-now it sours
No longer set like seas and mountains
may we stay fertile like the flowers

And the farmer’s bread bouquet
would sew itself to say:

Might fathers see their children
as beasts of burden see their plowers
while old maids fat for all their suckling
someday starve for the gift of flowers

And the merchant’s coin bouquet
would root itself to say:

May the policies of kings
know that their greed is ours
Let the overflow of compost
be the rising price of flowers

And the priest’s iron bouquet
would bloom itself to say:

More than the leach is loath to flinch
the harlot never cowers
Had she not taken of its fruit
she would still have worn its flowers

And the demon’s flesh bouquet
would ripen itself to say:

The lower life is at its end
Wings spread from fragrant towers
A vanity sacred as it was
when invented by the flowers

And the scribe’s pen bouquet
would seed itself to say:

Looking down at pacing sand
the looking glass of passing hours
This sundial in the stone is cracked
for the shadows of growing flowers