As the orchids grow, than I will see you again.
My beloved flowers.
Somethimes I get them from you, and somethimes
I get them for my birthday. You are away now, but
the time that the orchids grow you where back by me.
I will meet you and it looks like you never being away.
I always loved you. From the day that i have layed my
eyes on you, I whas in love with you. The flowers are
blooming now, the orchids grow. You where standing
before me and I whisper; you are back. Yes, I am you
said and you come to me and kssing my forehead.

Every time that I see orchids,
I think of you and me.
And what we meant for each other.
That delicate flower, the symbol of our precious love.
Every time that I see orchids, and their beautiful shape,
I must think on the wonderful times that we had together.
Yes, orchids are for us the flowers of love. For others are
it maybe roses, but not for us. And I'm so in love with
black orchids, they are my favourite ones. The orchid
a lovely elegant flower, when I see one, I think of us.
The orchid, that beautiful flower, symbol of our love,
I saw the orchids coming out of the ground, a sign that
you where coming back, and the first one that came out
where my favourite ones, they where black.

Your colors diffuse in hushed streaks
across synapses,
as empty spaces also become orchids
and butterfly petals reach for a scent
their counterparts in rain.
A fringed April is actually an orchid.

She said she would be willing to get a matching tattoo
with me. A flower permanently imprinted on our skin.
She likes orchids, I like lilies. And even after moving
away she understands my addictions; growing old,
the rain, Team Gibbs, bats, my love for pistachios
and maybe even my need to come back home.

As much as I love Ohio, it’s nice to go home
every once and awhile. Saving up for my tattoo
is not easy when I keep spending my money on M&M;’s and pistachios,
especially when my mother isn’t there to pinch my skin
and tell me to put my wallet away. She’s not old—
but I certainly feel like I am when she says she’s moving

away from me. I toss and turn and move
in my sleep thinking about how home
will never be the same without her. The cats are getting old;
their time is coming. Maybe we should get a tattoo
of them instead of flowers—light and dark brown skin
warm and cuddled together, munching on pistachios.

I remember when I first became addicted to pistachios.
It was a church Christmas party and the wine was moving
closer to my hands. Mom said I could, as I felt the buzz of my skin
react to my fourth glass. She shook her head and drove me home
laughing at my sneaky attempts to act sober. A tattoo
was out of the question; what would I think when I got old?

Our relationship now has changed, intimate friends never too old
to dance or talk about our *** lives, throwing pistachios
at each other or plan out our future tattoos.
I am going to miss her, and she me, as she moves
on with her dreams, starting over, building a new home
In a place we’ve never known, but always in the same skin

that I have loved my whole life.  A soft, toasted skin
that has been passed down to me for my days of old.
Born, nurtured, taught and loved in my mother’s home;
home-cooked meals that surpass the freshest of pistachios
so I would one day learn how to cook. No matter where she moves,
my mother will remain deep in my heart, my skin—like a tattoo.

She gave me my skin and approved of my tattoo,
provided me with a home complete with pistachios
and an old promise: her heart is unmoving.

These orchids are yours, and with them, all colours known to earthly sight.

They shall prove rigid, ever blocking Time's course, professing eternity their right.

Roses express my affections well; blooming amidst the warmth of Summer, fed to satisfaction by the dew of your lips . . . yet they shall wither.

Then dry dust shall be my affections' well; blooming Lycoris Radiata legions advancing amidst the warmth of Death's banner . . . Towards our love's ellipse . . .

YET -

These orchids are yours, and with them, the multi-folded papers from which their fibres and petals are equally composed. These are humble gifts, but were they to boast: "We orchids offer to thine love, an eternity; an assurance of perpetuity, by toast."

He would bring me orchids,
To the cemetery late at night
We would make love amongst the tombstones
In the pale, moonlight
Whispering sweet promises,
We both knew could never be
I prayed to the godless heavens,
That he'd be mine for eternity
Now he forever lies,
In that cemetery by the sea
Only the scent of death and orchids,
Brings his memory back to me

Flying bloom to bloom,
but no mere dance this faultless path.
You favour puple,
so it seems.
Clover, thistle, orchid, no dream-like drift this bustling  march.
In each quick kiss no flower touched twice,
no frantic frenzy,
"keep on, keep on" your gentle buzzing seems to say.
Until, pushing through an orchids sweet embrace,
head buried in the blooms,
Your tiny heart
quietly
ceases
to beat...

This is for you,
The Roses, the Orchids, the Lilies of the world,
Your colour, your fragrance, your perfection unmatched,
This is for you:

It is for you that the sun rises everyday;
It rises so that you may bask in it's rays.

It is for you that the rain falls down;
It falls for you and seeps into the ground.

They are for you, the birds and the bees;
They prune you of your wilted leaves.

And they are for you, my deep blue eye;
To gaze upon you all until I die.

Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.

The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.

I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.