The Careless Perfection Of Nature

Damn fool oaks!
Don’t they know that lightning seeks the tallest trunks?
And how about those prissy hemlocks, 
so neat and frilly, so fussy in their form,
now ravaged by some hungry little worm–
whole forests of them, denuded.
Even monstrous boulders, silent and impassive– 
the ones outlasting mountains–
surrender to shape-shifting waters, 
and slender roots seeking the merest fissure.
Great stones, winding up like the dwindling sands, 
trickling through my glass.

When that glass gets turned again, 
I promise to keep closer to the earth,
to return, perhaps, as a blushing trillium. 
White or pink, it really makes no difference.
Just give me a night of icy rain, 
a few mild days of dappled sun–then–
I will show you my perfection.

What are you looking for?