How grand this vision of the mind
that pesters for a place
and lands in blind men’s buckets
as the stems that form his base.
How grand the height of humble hues-
the youth of blazing sun,
the portrait grazing purples,
and the beryl beads that run.
How grand the reach of failure
as the hands of watches slow
and pause on parted petals
in the fields where seconds glow.
– Amy Struthers