Grace

We prune the orange flowers
Knowing we are doing wrong.
We produce less fruit...
Sometimes the plant dies by our pruning.
Yet, the rain still comes;---
The Earth still gives its scent;---
The birds fly by;
The Lightning fertilizes it.

Deep in our gut we know...
But we do it anyway.
And the flower does not produce fruit.
We poison its roots.
An unforgivable sin.
But, it is forgiven nonetheless,
Though we say, "I hadn't killed the plant.
"It was done the only way I knew how."
And we have knowledge,
And carry on unknowingly;
We do not know we had killed it
That with a little expertise
We may have saved the plant from extinction.
But, there is the lesson:
We pridefully go about our business
But grace leaves a little fruit on the vine
Despite our uncultured ways.