Animals and aliens

Hydrangeas are a special treat

of late Summer
they are just starting now
some sharing
the blush cream
colour

of bridal roses
others going red
others still trending blue
based on what's there
in the soil
for them to use
in their effort
to attact
the bees
and show themselves worthy
of the place
God gave them
to give us joy
as we toil
to make ourselves
shine
and honour the light
within us

as we take
satisfaction
in the bounty
of blooms
the hydrangea shares
unselfishly
unpretentiously
for the sole prupose
of putting her own foot forward
in that turtle slow race
on uneven ground
in stiff humidity
in wilting heat
that marks
for parents
the story
of their children's source
and origin
as the sons and daughter's
of life's longing
for itself

and the consolations
for pain

and those subtle sufferings
that cannot sociablly
be shared
without fishing
for sympathy
or asking
for consideration
not a douceur
or any sort of bribe
but that
spontaneous gesture of affection
which is
a sign of love
that we cannot naturally
expect or realistically be given
whenever we need it
yet we are promised
it is there
vouchsafed
in the care
we have
for one another

such is the gift of hope
which asks
that we don't ask
for too much
or even what
we feel
is owed
based
on our own frailty
and efforts
to do
our best
ever so quietly
and self-effacingly
and
in the colour
and
with the range of bloom
of the hydrangea
that we can
based
on the soil
from which we grow
the needs
for which we reach
even those
that exceed our grasp
and the hurts
invisible injuries most
that often
do not show
in the bark

but are bred
in the bark
or the bone

of the tree
that we carry forth
crossed adorned
with badges
of shameful honour
and flags
of unconditional allegiance
to mute
and unlistening
and inscrutable
gods
who may care
as devils will
idling high
and lurching forward
like unruly cars
with dust sucking
carburetors

in ways
that pull the wheel
from hour hands
and riding low

sparking their bumpers
on the streets

as we feel
in our bellies
the gravity
of grace
that makes us drop

before she reaches
out
to break our fall
and draw us closer
to the fire

that we might be comforted

when we have nothing else
on which
to hang our hats
or hear our confession
or ask their forgiveness
for what is not ours
to take
or even to ask
let alone
with which
to play
or have a shot
which we feel
is only fair
if only
that could be granted
the compassion
of Quan Yin

which is
the only source of comfort
and the font
of all the torment
that does not show
in our faces
but looks
from our eyes

at those who are there
if only they could care.