By sepals and pistils we are summoned
to testify against almighty darkness,
to unfurl our hatred in the presence of daffodils.
Down the throats of lilies we pour our bile.
Their sheer indifference is what attracts us,
nectar of not judging. Pausing among them
seems to weaken time, make the past wait.
Here, waist-deep in cool flames, the widow
burnishes her pain. Here the child,
wrongly accused, curls toward sleep,
calls to dinner floating like birdsong above.
The pausing-place, where silence grows
and where forgiveness is held