(This is a native, wild violet in my yard.)
We plot our gardens wrestle
with the weeds demarcate
the sacred from the profane
so it would seem the struggle
to make linear this round
world our triumph of will
to straighten the meandering
path of dreams of life who comes
always of her own volition
surrender to the flood
these winds that carve our valleys
the heaving ground that lifts us
we seedlings of dying stars
have yet to know true splendor.

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