When the Lotus Blossom is still a closed bud,
It is not so easy to see the prayers and the promises,
That the folded hands conceal.
When its time has come, the Fibonacci grail,
In its geo-sacred petalous unfoldment,
Is held up above its liquid mirror image,
By a thin fluted pedestal of cellulose and hydrostatic wonder,
Capturing the halos of Helos in the loving chalice,
And giving it back to our eyes and our hearts,
In the forms and etheros of color, scent, sound,
Procreation, Community, Geometry, and Philosophy;
All of which is Love.
Far above this sun inspired sacrament
The forward curving tips of the black silhouette
Of a turkey vulture is motionless,
Except for the lazy spiral of the thermal it is hanging onto.
It can neither see nor smell the Lotus
Which is looking directly up at it,
And not a bit nervous, or curious even,
But deeply moved, highly respectful, and broadly grateful,
With no thought whatsoever.