by Rose Kelleher
The lilies of the field are toiling, toiling
at dirty work in subterranean darkness
day and night. Not in some mythic kingdom
steeped in royal gloom,
they’re scrounging for their lives, anonymous,
in holes no deity would be caught dead in,
clumped together, twenty to a room.
Exhaling musk from open throats the lilies
are spinning, spinning acid rain and roadsalt
into fire and flash that fool the eye,
even of God,
who saw them in the field, serene and silent,
and all they did was nod.