Stamens, nodding

Fields of crimson red
        billowing in the wind      
stamens full of ripe saffron
        fields of smiling crocuses        
sepals       petals        inward grains
        cast the present in a light      
bathe the twain
        closing the sky open the seas          
was that ever said of the soul
        Maybe it should,        
and the crier cried His news
        shall we leave it lie        
the rains will wash it away
        so much delible ink on paper