Blossom Whine

What grand intelligence is this
that sends its tiny armies to undo, unfold,
’til every head bursts open?

What shameful mockery
leaves us thus, to hold our faces high
on so slim a stalk?

We, who would preen on every breeze?
But left unblessed, we droop
and sigh instead.

There must have been some lesson in it—
crafting beauty which
must be staked or caged.

Or was it just a drunken afterthought?
Or wager, perhaps, to see who would
overlook so glaring a flaw?

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