A FLOWER’S ODE

Oh, my body grows from a stem,

every vein,
           fragrance and leaf.

the winds sway my heart upright,

and your touch
    before you pull,

I await calmly–my executioner

my pollen smells you woman,
the tender finger-puller of love.

Behold:  I die for your eyes
and beauty you see within me,
my petals and colours —

till finally nothing
but dried wick-of-stick.

Everything that seeds taught me
my childhood years so nameless,
and your tears like glistening water,
christen me after I have died!

When you bury me — made radiant
by your shining hair and bosom,
the altar which you have crowned
by your lightly showering tears!

:: 08-31-2014 ::