This first August week, the geraniums
are flowering their second flush:
they braved last winter, huddled like cabbage stalks
so as to be inconspicuous
to the meddlesome and sterile fingers of frost,

then burst into abundant life, as did the pelargoniums,
with a blatant generosity or hymn of praise as if
to prove some point we'd overlooked
about Creation.

Last week, dead-headed like a battlefield,
they fell back into themselves, exhausted,
as if they wanted a long summer holiday,
to last right through to autumn's fall;

only, this week, to bear a second coming:
yet changed: their petals paler, exquisite,
water-coloured like shells fresh from the waves,
or the most delicate painted porcelain or
Japanese flowers brushed on silk;

as if God had fallen in love with His own Creation,
seeing it good; and then
repainted it with second, subtler coat;
and given to the geraniums
a second chance to remind us of the love
we missed the first time round.

Michael Shepherd

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0243-the-second-coming/