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Language of Flores

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i am an Aracia (not an Amaryllis)
grown from dull and not from rainbows
i am not sad if there are fenses who isolate
i do not worry if Hera reprimand Zeus

my petals are petals of accumulated dew and sewn silk
my leaves are leaves of the waxing moon
(opening and expanding and retracting and closing) who
somersaults like a coin and bestows my reflecting light

behind this palisade throbs a pang of asphyxia
a bath in void of happy and sad and pulchritude and grotesque
shadowing my quarantined abode of perfected posture
and the hope i sleep with the laze of leisure

i am an Aracia (behind the border of
a beauteous garden of Amaryllis) at war with peace
and i care not if skies grow bluest
i will not cry when warmth dies coldly

sepal by petal, i send my diaphanous grains
to majestic you who is now or never:
understanding my language of flores which is the charm of passion
(blooming your garden and germinating my heart)



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