A Flower
Gentle,
And loving;
There is nothing more
This flower can be.

I sense the feeling;
It senses my sense.
I sense its living;
Immense, and grand,
Its short life span
Within its seasonal cycle.

I touch the flower.
It touched me.
Deeper than touch:
It pierced right through
To my soul.
It pierced and left it’s mark.
A mark of Love.
A mark that only a flower could leave.

But in that piercing
Touch, I felt a fire,
Felt its burn.
A pyrotechnical display
That no-one but I could see.
I became that flower.
I saw its light and its life and
The Life that is Light.

‘Twas then that my sepals
Slowly did open;
Curled back, slowly;
Blinding my stigma with
The Light of the Sun.
In the morning’s rays I
Did stretch, and yawn,
And one by one my petals
Opened – opened to the Light
Of the Sun.

And with a thousand others
I bent to the Sun in east,
Followed its course through
The Heavens,
And bowed humbly
In adoration,
To the west
At dusk.

I am a flower of God.
No longer the bud,
Closed to the Light of the Sun,
And here do I dwell,
In this earth field full
Of the closed buds
Awaiting to be opened.

And once these buds may see
The beauty of an open flower
Like me,
They too, may bow to the
East, in adoration,
And bow to the west humbly,
And spread, and multiply,
Till with Flowers of Love,
This field may be filled.

A carpet of open flowers
Fit for a God to walk on.
Then shall the Gods walk
On Earth.
Then shall we flowers be
As the Gods,
Beings of Light;
Beings of Life.

Then shall the Earth be
The Heaven it is.
No longer the tangled
Labyrinth of thorn-clad,
Vines and parasites,
But the field of
Flowers of the Sun.