The Flower and the Storm

What is this upon the rosy vine? As evening sunlight’s sloth entwines Shadows thickening against a sky Of approaching stormy jagged clouds Lit inside with flash and sound Thunder’s rumble shook the ground And on the vine when all were closed One flower stood in blank repose As if to mock the storms advance And bear witness to the carnal dance Of elemental beauty, so it seemed Or perhaps it was just stupidity But there stubbornly the flower sat As softly rose the pitter-pat Of the first of many drops To fall steaming on the lava rocks But soon the rocks were quenched The flower too completely drenched Thunder’s grinding crack then wrenched The modest quiet And its basso rumbling Set the very pebbles trembling Thus it went; the storm did pass But the flower’s soft pink petals fast Were beaten off and hammered down Upon the wet and windswept ground As ash from some dark tragedy Yet as beautiful as all can be