Where the small heads of violets <br />are shrunk to smaller skulls, <br />in meadows where the mind forgets <br />its bull fights and its bulls; <br />the dust of violet or rose <br />relinquishes its scent <br />and carries with it where it blows <br />a lessening remnant <br />of heresies in equipoise <br />and balanced argument <br />with which the mind would have refleshed <br />the flower's skeleton, <br />but that it found itself enmeshed <br />in the web of oblivion. <br />Therefore, when Gabriel sound the horn <br />and dust rise through the ground, <br />our flesh shall turn, on our last morn <br />fleshless as the horn's sound.<br /><br />John Brooks Wheelwright<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seed-pods/
