Cliches

These beauties were my own private arc
From solstice to equinox; nothing ideal
Here. No heroes, heroics; no Mystic Rose.
They ate up my plant food, drank my water,
Pricked my fingers all summer long.

I just read through a treatise about faith.
A friend wrote it, at great risk to his health,
Meaning he bumped into darkness visible
While it all fell together. He discussed Dante.
I’m staring, in the kitchen, at roses,
Possibly the last I’ll pick this year,
Just about to drop September petals,
Floating, moribund and glorious in glass,
The buds of the ripest ones, concentric.

It doesn’t take much to see these things
Expanding until they take everything in,
The Big Bang viewed from the top of the stairs.