Sometimes she gets mad when the crowd forgets her,
But then she remembers - even graves get flowers.

A bouquet of flowers is a sweet gift,
peonies pink, roses red, orchids white.
Stems neatly trimmed, wrapped and delivered swift,
a sign of care, igniting new light.
But be wary of ill-fated decisions,
of carnations, tansies, roses – yellow.
Of clumped, wilted bundles, inner collisions.
A sign, that love will not be what you sow.
Maybe, instead, find the seedlings for you,
and remember every flower can grow.
Water, sunlight, and the will to stay true,
could be enough, to see them bloom and glow.
And while flower language loses voices,
remember your right – chase your good choices.

tending to our garden
planting peonies and orchids
solemnly growing so florid

from generation to generation
our kids can frolic and play
symbolic of our love's stay

My eyes, throbbing with agony,
bore through the window,  
desperately seeking the freedom of sky.  

To my surprise the crabapple tree  
possessed joyous magenta flowers,  
providing an unexpected  
jubilant assault of my mind.  

Lush leafy erratic branches,  
a turmoil of spring beauty  
stood in striking empathy of my silent cries.  

The afternoon sun pales the majesty of magenta.
As only love can pale agony.  
Memories live forever, is a haunting horrible lie.  
Unlike me, those magenta flowers don't need a why....

My love for her will never die.  
The majesty of those magenta flowers,  
if only for a moment, seizes and saves me deep inside.

I change my colors every day.
From a morose and gloomy orange to a silver shining gray.
A chameleon is what I am, indelible.
I was born to alter, somewhat unhealable.

The colors adjust to everyone’s care.
In the morning sunset, I match the goldish orange air.
Blending into the fauna and flora,
My shades not too bright, so I blend seamlessly with the Roman aurora.
Trying not to try too hard,
So I can’t be harassed by the rest of the yard.

At midnight I relocate,
Even if it is oh so late.
While walking, my skin changes,
Which means it’s the moon that ranges.

From a soft orange to a glowing shade of gray —
It’s my shame that I convey.
It’s my dishonor that holds me back from being the brightest peony in the flowerbed.
It’s my own thorns from which every day I bled.

My own fault, because peonies don’t have thorns.
The other florals always have something that adorns.
At least it seems that way.
But they only ever saw the light of day.

The blood red vibrant buds on the trees ignite
in a chaotic emergence against the pale blue sky.
The infant spring sheen of the warm sun,
beckons my mind into a garden of oblivion.
Heavy thoughts are lost to the miniature whistles
of the happy house finch.
Breeze sweeps crumbs of dreams that were never clinched.
Penetrating the soul's rich soil
are fresh buds of ideas that have remained loyal.
Before blossoms burst, my black dirt voraciously thirsts.
And then joyous daffodils destroy winter's curse.

I sat upon a fashioned stump
Where birds and bugs all ducked and dived;
Stuck on the stump before a ****
And wondering which to hide.

A smear of veg before me spreads
As far as the mind can see;
And dazzling flowers all nod their heads,
And all of them smile at me.

Then the birds, the birds all sing their song,
And the rest can buzz and dance along,
So I know that really it can’t be long
‘Till everything’s smiling at me.

But the buzz and the song -
Oh, where had they gone?
And those flowers -
How they smiled at me!