I am a free and constant disciple of flowers,
For no thing else invokes in me such wild respect.
Hushing torrents of thought, pure nectars of peace–
In flowers I taste the fruits of Heaven’s Mind.
Little sisters, wild roses, sparkle in evening waters.
Once a dew-licker, always a dew-licker.
I’ve wept in patches of Siberian irises,
And all summer long, Queen Anne’s Lace and I commune over fate.
Why these seasons of the spirit, I wonder—why do windows and doors open and close? Why the ebb, why the flow? Why do our hearts change?
In my younger years, I wished myself a dandelion—constant, bright, tough, true.
Jack in-the-pulpit days came, sporadic unfurling in bogs.
Meandering memories of peony season are easy to inhale—an absurdly luscious reveal!
Queen rose, sown so deep in me, perfumes the holy waters of the broken heart.
As sure as the early bird announces the return of the sun,
In flowers, I always find the answer.