Ears throb, red
enlarged like the calloused hands of a work man
Progression succinctly procreating
Will it be pruned to grow
stout and fruitless
Or will it be nurtured in its expanding plumage
The hands of the divine grasp the newly grown roses, and they sniff
Gawking, hysterical, astounded, grateful
They roll in the thorns
Because the wind doesn't blow