Crimson and purple, as the seed packs foretold,
But there was something inexplicable
In the sudden and uncontainable
Profusion, what we would call a miracle
If we hadn't been whipped too many times,
Enough to disregard the shapes of the grass,
The path of the bees, the way light's held in the leaves.
We accept that there is an explanation
Because we don't want to hear another one
And because our minds are so fragile
We are afraid of our own transparence.
The world was not physical once.
Night by night, it disappears.
