The flower emerges, opening wide its petal arms and, just like that, Jesus has come again.
The seed head stands gallant, reaching skyward, a star burning at its core.
It was there from the beginning, you know
at the very planting of the seed,
the miracle.
Of pattern and spiral and dancing coils.
Before the flower grew skyward, or opened itself to the eyes of the world
a mystery was embedded within.
A figure of beauty and grace
seeds lining up just so
going on to tell stories and ring out glory
yes?
And if I were to look deeply
might I begin to see that same joy tattoo
everywhere?
In the birds and the bees and the sycamore trees
a dripping spiral
of utterly wondrous magic.
