Wild is the flower
in meadows unsown,
far beneath the Himalayan peaks
wreathed by regal clouds,
picturesque patches of green,
moving shades of purple,
riding with the roving sun,
galleries of nature’s handiwork,
hiding behind the craggy cliffs
that divert the rolling streams
from snow into ice into water
into sporadic fertile fields,
down into the porous soil,
the mother of the wildflower,
trattoria of the animals,
work place of the bees,
academy of botanical science
for the students of nature,
one single flower,
microcosmic world
drawing them to the core,
shrinking them down to
the life of a bee,
flying onto the petals,
luxuriating in the air,
drinking the nectar,
witnessing the fountain of life,
drawn to the spathe and
sensing the lust,
understanding the magnetism,
then growing back
to normal again
with a knowing of  another
segment of how nature works
and taking one step closer
to finding the way
to the shadows of God.

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