Fibonnaci Meditation

once
a
flower
bloomed up from
the dusty dirt road.
sandaled feet tread softly here,
but the white men were less couth and smashed its brother there,
where, now, four monks run fingers over beads and whisper blessings of regeneration,
prayers to the smeared petals and oozing flesh left behind--a reminder of the carelessness of those who do not raise their heads to see the sun.