View From My Window

The Wicked Flower

What wicked white flower
has walked across my grave
mourner's grey-beard ghost
has golden boughs, a doily

for his head. It does not want
to share its wealth.
Healed as if from heaven,
the Hermit, in his hateful ways,

has hidden himself in green hilltops,
hoping to catch a glimpse
of the dying sunset lost among
the clouds heading
out to sea.

-Published Previously in "Pulse Magazine," 2004