Flower Language
— Yoon Park
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.
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