Rose
We are all filters of the world,
taking the news in—the happy births
and inane deaths, the charities and cruelties,
the beauties and the gross ugliness
of nature and of human nature.
These things pass through us or get stuck,
taking us with them into the poles of our own natures.
Those ills of the world we choose to dwell on
change us if we are not careful to let them go again
or to act in a manner opposite—
which causes us to seed new hope
which just might, just might
catch hold in the sieves
of others
and bloom.
A concrete poem is one that takes the form of what it describes. I could find no photo of a rose in my photo library, so the form of the poem will have to do to illustrate its meaning.
The prompt today was “filter.”
