the violets

There's a bouqúet of violets that burst a coronet

of diodes mourning on the sidewalk curb. Their silhouette

capitulates the sleep that carpeted the showers

the curious eyes cast to earn speed. It's odd how it towers

with gracious balance fencing through the grievous grey,

Where just rain slimes did puddle baubles on the way

that meagre stones immediately contended

to whet the jaws by pregnant creases fended,

once the scant coffin of pendants from a wall,

now grooming zephyr to this puffed atoll!

the palette of th'atmosphere is stirred anew

with the pigments that this forest freshly grew,

As it swells the mist that seeped from sieving mountains

with the braided veins enclosing their sun' fountains:

The gift of a pomed vision lifting out fatigue, 

by th'awe it gleans for noticing. Each stalk a meek

crown to its petals leans - that of the plant's noun

shows no portrait-: a whorl of blonde lobes, with brown,

ribs that, the radiance of their countenance,

with th'orbits of their fragrant smiles enhance. 

Like notes lodged in the vaults of a score,

or the suppliant choir at th' urged door,

a flower from its siblings peaks,

together nibbling at swung peeks,

As a brood of chirping starlings

when they hear th'air motherly sings

Of seasons always crammed with

The love that their cracked shell lit.