Pilgrims
The old zinnias sway in
the garden bed, shoulders
hunched and heads bowed,
their bright garments tattered
and stained from wear, as
the sun shifts its sleepy gaze
over the front yard. Still,
every flower is gamely doing
its job, gathering the light
and casting it up at our faces.
Who minds a missing petal
like a broken tooth, or a brown
like a broken tooth, or a brown
smudge amid the gold?
Certainly not the bee, who
nuzzles every blossom, who
blesses each splayed and faded
circlet, each discolored array,
clasping the hands that are
raised to her as she moves,
saint-like, among them,
humming imperceptibly
as she goes.
Joel
Showalter, no longer a
Hoosier by residence, has deep ties to Indiana. He was born in Marion and spent
the first 24 years of his life in that part of the state. He received his
bachelor’s degree in English and writing from Indiana Wesleyan University. His
work has been
published or is forthcoming in The Carolina Quarterly, December, Delmarva
Review, Mud Season Review, and The Christian Century. He
works as editorial director at a marketing agency in Columbus, Ohio.