Flower Language

Gone, I whisper and walk towards
the bed of belladonnas, close enough
to listen to their gentle

inquisitive conversation. I listen
to their arms fan widely above
and over their mystery fruits:

magnolias, singing. They indulge
in noiseless chatter while I swaddle
in dahlias overwinter crisp

newspaper. The children have made a home
out of miniature sunflowers—only
ones that could afford real blooms

instead of the silk imitations
sold in the supermarket. The wind praises
the gray foliage and the knee-length weeds.

Lavender: the height of a spine
and the way it tickles the sky on a whim
grounds the stalks into more purple

than they are. The pine with hipbone steps
turns enwrapped in a fragrance—breathe.
The garden is nothing concrete

but a moment all at once.
I bury my nails in clay ripples
thoroughly spoiling myself

with Earth.