Trillium
~Named for its trinity of leaves, of petals.

The universe prefers
            odd numbers. It leans,
                        obsessed with
what's next. It likes syllogisms,
            the arguments of
                        sonnets: if A
equals B, then C.
            The ground-level
                        common denominator,
the blood-red whorl
            at the base, is not
                        an answer but
a turning. Does that leave you
            dizzy? What can I
                        say that would
reassure either of us? Even
            our prayers have to
                        catch hold
as if we grabbed a spoke of
            a merry-go-round and tried
                        to convince
the universe of what we want
            stopped, reversed.
                        What it gives us
instead: this bad-smelling
            beautiful bloom.
                        "Let go, let go,"
is what it says, and who wants
              to hear that?

Copyright © 2006 Fleda Brown All rights reserved
from Southern Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission