Heather
Purple heather of the moors
The sight of you, so dear, so sweet
Beckoning the crux of my soul,
Enrapturing all senses when we meet.
Lovely heather so divine
Scattered 'cross vast hillsides,
Haunting my days and nights,
Like an encroaching riptide.
You and I, we beat as one
Despite what lies betwixt us,
Steadfast and ever true you grow,
To cover and invoke so much.
And when this life shall vacate me
I’ll gift you heart, mind, and soul
To wander over your flower strewn hills,
Knowing there, I will be made whole.
I love peonies.
I love peonies.
I told you this a few times,
like when we walked past the flower shop on 2nd St.
Or at that one wedding, looking at the centerpiece.
I love peonies.
We would joke around about how you thought dandelions were better
I argued they were just pretty weeds
and would never be superior to peonies.
I love peonies.
You complimented my new perfume,
said it smelt like flowers.
It was peonie, but what you said was still true.
I love peonies.
I told you it's because they are so unique
that the flower still looks strong, even though it can be delicate.
You said just like me.
I love peonies.
You gave me a surprise;
you said it's my favorite,
and I'd surely love it.
You got me a bouquet of roses.
I love peonies.
Ghostly Flower
Amidst the murky swamp, where danger lurks
There blooms a flower, a ghostly perk
A rare treasure, so beautiful and rare
A Ghost orchid, with an ethereal flair
Its petals, a ghostly white
Glowing in the darkness of the night
Majestic and otherworldly, it sways in the breeze
Entrancing all those who dare to appease
It's said to be haunted, by a spirit so old
Once a human, now a flower to behold
A tragic story, a love gone awry
But in its beauty, her spirit will never die
She dances among the trees, in a ghostly ballet
Her presence felt, in a haunting way
Her love for the orchid, forever bound
Her essence lingers, with every petal found
But as the moon rises high in the sky
A plot twist, catches every eye
For the Ghost orchid, is not just a flower
It's a guardian, of a mystical power
As spirits of the swamp, try to cause harm
The Ghost orchid, raises its magical arm
With a burst of light, and a whispering spell
It banishes the darkness, and all is well
So let us not fear, this ghostly sight
For the Ghost orchid, is a protector of the night
A symbol of love, and a symbol of might
A flower so divine, in its ghostly light.
White Hydrangea
Dripping, a slow heat that suffocated as it lifted you into summer. I was twenty-four and had nothing to prove. I walked through the Yale University art museum while my best friend sat in front of a likeness to Michelangelo, tracing the every curve of people from history. What we didn't know was: we were creating our very own.
There was a white hydrangea plant outside of a church on the Yale campus. It created words inside my brain that hung like the branches themselves: sentences turned to paragraphs while my twenty-four year old self beamed and touched each flower. It was the happiest time of my life.
I was free. I went to bars and ordered margaritas with the abandon of the bees that sucked on the hydrangea's blossoms. I remember that plant, not only because I took copious pictures of it (although that, too), but because it was there only to be loved.
It was ninety degrees and the humidity lurked, turning into ghosts that I can only reminisce about in the present day. The heat seemed to evaporate as soon as it appeared. The hydrangea remained strong, tethered to the earth. It didn't seem bothered by anything, only happy to further illuminate the already piercingly bright day.
May Crowning
Dry earth splits with repulsion
There is a paradox in the crying shame that a dehydrated cell forgets how to soak
It’s a crying shame that any devil can conceive an awakening
I’m comparing swelling to an eviction
There is a paradox to—
I never wanted an open plot until one was thrust upon me
I watched an orchid blossom beneath the hem of my skirt
And I’ll tell you what
It’s in the petals unfurling that I fall in love
A tendril scrapes me clean
And, I do
I fall in love
I am the chasm
I am the crimson rush we love to forget
I am in love with the building up of an orchid
Until all I want is open plots
Twelve summers can tarnish the bed
And I’ll tell you what
A finger buds slower than an atrium
I water the blooms with a blood-letting
Next summer, there’s always next summer
And still the new orchids weep
dead rose petals strewn clog
the hard arteries of my heart
your requested favorite
expensive frail fleeting
a dozen for a benjamin
thornless stems hand plucked
least you bled while arranging
them in that crystal vase kept
above the fridge for especially
expecting my deposit ransom
for an exchange kiss hug fuck
too soon dead rotting scummy
stinking water dried dead petals
shriveled crimson mouse ears
brief transitory cursory fading
your fragrance suffocates me
First
Crocus is the Bertha
of flowers...
by the harsh
cold nomification
and hard edge
pronunciation,
that emphasizes
labor over beauty,
breadth of sentiment
in personification
and the notion
that Rose
is also
a difficult name
to say in duration
however
germane...
it doesn't either
roll sprightly
as its scent might
from soft velvet petals
on thorned stem
in heat of summer...
The small and mighty
dust of the lowly
bloomed Crocus,
pale and lilaceous
over the crusted
evaporating snow,
weighing in
with 24 karats
dust of saffron,
most precious
gold flavored
Spring...
and I plant this
strange light bulb
into the topsoil
with great hope,
and hoarse voice
to signal
for me
the end
of winter
04.19.2024
...a favorite flower... challenge @Last
...By Any Other Name
Like all pretty things, she came into this world armed.
Many desire to touch her beauty, going so far as to snip any defense from her to fit their aesthetic.
The cruelty of it all, is their greed only serves to destroy the very thing they seek.
She is believed to be weak, for she truly only lasts a week.
How could any last when stolen from their life source?
A symbol of love, but who would finally love her, leaving her rooted?