—named for its trinity of leaves, of petals.
The universe prefers
odd numbers. It leans,
obsessed with
what’s next. It likes syllogisms,
the arguments of
sonnets: if A
equals B, then C.
The ground-level
common denominator,
the blood-red whorl
at the base, is not
an answer but
a turning. Does that leave you
dizzy? What can I
say that would
reassure either of us? Even
our prayers have to
catch hold
as if we grabbed a spoke of
a merry-go-round and tried
to convince
the universe of what we want
stopped, reversed.
What it gives us
instead: this bad-smelling
beautiful bloom.
“Let go, let go,”
is what it says, and who wants
to hear that?