GOD IS THE SENSE THE WORLD MAKES WITHOUT GOD

Every year the hydrangea grows so
big its white brains, lobed nodes, 
flop over all around the rim to 

the first stormburst, leaving midbush 
stem-arching open space: and then 
the white booms, sprinkled weighty 

by rain, turn green down near the ground, 
splintery petal-balls: going high lofts 
more substance than height assumes or holds.



                               (A.R. Ammons)
                               From: Brink Road 

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