Orange, yellow petals halo dark circles, seek
the flaming sun from which they take their name, their lives.
Who can understand what the golden flower knows;
how soundly grounded, rooted, fixed in place it is.
All see its cheery face consorting with the wind,
turning toward the light, while hundreds of white roots
cluster in a large, hidden ball bigger than its bloom,
buried in the darkness away from casual eyes.
Each separate strand, a serpentine hand, clasping
nourishment, anchors tall stalk and heaven-reaching,
seeded head, rock-solid in the nurturing soil.

This subtle, unseen rootedness, melding firmly
with earthy planet's flesh, while seeking highest sky...
metaphor of the life of man, what might, should be;
the union of transcendence, earth's reality.