A tremour in the cupped and upheld hand,
Buds gently dancing in the vertical. A pink
And icy chalice - candles, quiver, stand,
Bent darts, all aimed at sky. So many think
This basket (branched to hold the jostled flowers),
Contrived by evolution, blindly, to
Succeed. And yet, perhaps, success is ours
As senseless blooms, all quiet, don't know
A goldfinch flickers them and, yellow-red,
Exploits the safety of their dumbness. Sure,
Selection honed this candelabra, led
The way to perfect function; purpose pure,
But only we see white-tinged flames that bend -
Our seeing, knowing, still, perfection's end.
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