If you pay attention to the flowers,
the blooms in the hollows of your cheeks,
buds hanging from your jawbone,
bowing to a somber reflection,
Overlook the wilted edges
and the mud above the roots,
perhaps the petals won't fall.

If you sing for the meadow
lush in your temples
and between your eyes,
green with the vibrant flora,
light will fall over your eyes
and the growth in the soil
will be alive with allure.

Continents of
the flexing spine,
shifting behind the lungs.
A forest spanning dips and curves
from shoulder to hip,
the sway of your midriff
under the weight of
mountain peaks
and the valleys between.

Your own eyes,
holders of the grandeur
of what is molded around the bones.
You must prune the roses
with love of your warm garden
and the birds with flock
to your trees.