They flourish
In spite of so many attacks,
The attempts of Nature
Who bore them to also
Kill them.
Insects. Weather.
Erysiphe cichoracearum,
A fancy name for mildew.
And yet they persist.
I should so survive.
Look at the blooms,
Begging to be rendered
Into an oil still life.
It’s a coat of many colors
Knit together.
They sway in the hot August breeze.
At whom do they wave?
God?