Some roses can’t decide if they would rather be yellow or red.
In every stained glass butterfly wing and every crafted hummingbird tongue,
in chiffon layers of petal upon petal, anther and stamen, centered strength,
I see your hand,
your art, and I wonder
at those who could praise science and the randomness of process for these marvels.
There is a hunger for wonder, and here it is.
But to praise the source of it all as an impersonal, cruel nothing
rather than an intelligent, creative something—
is to miss the love for the function and to miss intervention for happenstance .