here i am,
fragile as a tremulous ghost orchid,
wavering between frailty and esteem,
wondering to what degree
my taking of nutrients from the soil
warrents me resonsible
for providing something of substance
for anything else--

or is my silent beauty--
calling to others
using no sound or song
(although, perhaps a whisper),
continually captured as still
and serene
in tattered photographs--
though indefinatly still succeptable
to a blustery day--
is it enough?

is my subtle beauty--
existing only when somebody
has the will and patience of mind
to look at, or recongnize
my soft, white glow
contrasting my often mundane
background of earth--
is it enough?