Find A Moments Peace Poem by Daniel Artemas Harmon

To see the cycle,
one observes the rose,
whose roots suck on,
though all the petals fall,
nourishing seeds and death,
and then recall-
with purpose no philosophies
disclose.

Like man, from planted seed
the rose is born,
then thrusts about
for water, sun, and air,
essences which, before the rose,
were there,
but which it claims
with sharp and savage thorn.

It pricks against the world,
unknowing, blind,
even the vital bee
and scavenging ant,
set against all
except the mother plant,
indifferent to love
and to the cruel or kind.

The purpose of the rose
is only, then,
to grow and die,
and out of death to come
prepatterned cycle,
back to life again,
a pointless round,
from bloom to seed to bloom.

And yet, beyond the cycle,
gentle eyes
look at the rose
and find a moment's peace,
a dream of love
and kindliness, surcease
from hate and greed
and from the covering lies.

Savage and saveged,
with thorns no rose has grown,
man also breeds,
simply so he may die
for reasons which to him
are as unknown
as to the rose,
though he may wonder why-

Which gives one hope
within the encircling doubt
of purposes
one does not know about.