When marigolds bloom, they turn to the sun,
mirroring Apollo’s face with their own.
And every marigold is well-begun,
planting roots in earth, and ignoring stone.
Belonging as yet to no garden plot,
they sit lonely in tiny plastic bins,
waiting for a moment — a chance or shot
to nestle in earth, and forget the sins
of their previous dark incarnations.
For surely these creatures are learning joy,
and forgetting earlier misery.
Thus, when they stand planted at their stations,
the sorrows of others they will destroy,
and open in them, blooms of mystery.
In other news, my co-dorm-master’s grandmother died. I am covering dormitory in his absence, and have a house-full of children.