Believe it or not, sometimes when I sit down to do one of these, I have no idea what I am going to write about. Other times, I think I am going to write an amusing, informing and above all authoritative account of why it's cool to be an empirical Rationalist, but uncool to be a rational Empiricist and out comes a poem about flowers:
On the flower farm
Her ungloved hands are bloody from the thorns
Of a thousand roses picked
One February morning.
In the drought, she once walked many miles
To fetch water with her daughter
Who was always smiling.
On the flower farm the water flows,
Makes the sandy soil seem dark and rich,
Makes a woman wonder why
We eat so many roses in the West.
The Black Hole
2 months ago