Shrines Poem by Midifo Yearns

In droves at every shrine
devotees bend the knee, the neck,
the spine, in hopeful hopelessness
in longing search for the divine.
At times to please, or tease, or even
squeeze a coin from weathered hand
the seers may look and understand
that somehow in the widow’s mite
there is a truth, albeit trite, that
speaks of loss, of love, of longing
and that the creature bending knee
can touch a mystery bud and see
it open, bloom and spew its fragrance
where blinkered eyes see only
lucre, filthy, musty lucre.