they say, in time
always blooms;
and all evil
has a root,
so it must,
in turn, have its
blossoms too—
but just how much more
precious
and exotic
are those seldom-
acknowledged flowers
of simply
not caring much
one way or the other?
How fresh
is the fragrance
to the weary perceiver
of that perennial
which pops from a
stem of no preference?
After all, it's so common
to grow savage
and dishonest—
so garden
to do the right thing
in every single circumstance;
but it's exquisitely
rare (if not masterfully
complex)
to grow past
all inclinations
and too fast
for all opinions
after years
of cultivating, in the
diffident sun,
the prize-winning art
of neither
offering assistance
nor ever doing any
specific harm
to anyone.
