Gorse blossoming in snow Image: healingherbs.co.uk
I do not pray to increment my days Nor plead to ease my modest situation, I care not for a life of lavish ways Nor seek the power to rule over a nation. Though least among the blooms the gorse revive To flower midst the winter snow; yet I, Who bear no bloom and in my seed must thrive, But struggle forth and in one season die. To what then might this mortal weed aspire? Made less than gorse—ambition is but vain, But ah, mortality, my passion’s fire! You are my joy, though you shall be my bane; For gorse is neither virtuous nor trite, Save framed by mortal eyes in passion’s light.
Carib sun, pastel sky spectra felt with inner-eye neurons fly, axons sigh nerve-stems cry to visions high Tactile breath, words of touch hearts that melt as fingers clutch hands that brush, faces flush hormones rush as bodies crush Flower bed, a body’s scent psychedelic redolence stigma rent to pollen vent aroma sent in passion spent Mists that form on memory’s fission shrouds of time, intermission trite incision, mind’s perdition time’s derision, of my vision