Pollen Envy

Drenched in the rain
wrath of weather,
the conundrum of saints
is just another kind
of weeping, new born
high-bred drudgery.

It comes on doesn't it
in times like these,
steady as a heartbeat.

It is a long wait
or a sudden drop
in altitudes, a manta's
cold dart in the sea
parts borrowed time.

The dreary catalogue
of browns and grays,
neutral pacifiers in rich-
tone temples nestles the foothills
echoes the silence in your sermons.

How many foster dead
have you buried?
How many have seen
the flowers you failed to lay?

There is a no risk plan
absence in your glass,
a precious seed
in the escoria of doubt.
Pray it is still there.