Modern man is desperate, in places hard as this, to have flowers strewn
Soft petals, fragile, made of mankind’s begging want of good will
And pistils fogged with dust aching of pollen.
Not the truth. Truth is like rarified and beautiful things
The tiger orchid, sturdy, exotic, a technicoloured coat of many stripes.
For evolution does not ever appear en masse
But in one, new, creeping root able to split stones with a sheering, newfound will.
Able to thrive on rocks – no need
For moist blankets of dirt with their constant hints
And magnetic fields pulling things in gravity toward the vault of death.