Purple heather of the moors

The sight of you, so dear, so sweet

Beckoning the crux of my soul,

Enrapturing all senses when we meet.

Lovely heather so divine

Scattered 'cross vast hillsides,

Haunting my days and nights,

Like an encroaching riptide.

You and I, we beat as one

Despite what lies betwixt us,

Steadfast and ever true you grow,

To cover and invoke so much.

And when this life shall vacate me

I’ll gift you heart, mind, and soul

To wander over your flower strewn hills,

Knowing there, I will be made whole.

I love peonies.

I told you this a few times,

like when we walked past the flower shop on 2nd St.

Or at that one wedding, looking at the centerpiece.

I love peonies.

We would joke around about how you thought dandelions were better

I argued they were just pretty weeds

and would never be superior to peonies.

I love peonies.

You complimented my new perfume,

said it smelt like flowers.

It was peonie, but what you said was still true.

I love peonies.

I told you it's because they are so unique

that the flower still looks strong, even though it can be delicate.

You said just like me.

I love peonies.

You gave me a surprise;

you said it's my favorite,

and I'd surely love it.

You got me a bouquet of roses.

I love peonies.

Dry earth splits with repulsion

There is a paradox in the crying shame that a dehydrated cell forgets how to soak

It’s a crying shame that any devil can conceive an awakening

I’m comparing swelling to an eviction

There is a paradox to­­­­—

I never wanted an open plot until one was thrust upon me

I watched an orchid blossom beneath the hem of my skirt

And I’ll tell you what

It’s in the petals unfurling that I fall in love

A tendril scrapes me clean

And, I do

I fall in love

I am the chasm

I am the crimson rush we love to forget

I am in love with the building up of an orchid

Until all I want is open plots

Twelve summers can tarnish the bed

And I’ll tell you what

A finger buds slower than an atrium

I water the blooms with a blood-letting

Next summer, there’s always next summer

And still the new orchids weep

Amidst the murky swamp, where danger lurks

There blooms a flower, a ghostly perk

A rare treasure, so beautiful and rare

A Ghost orchid, with an ethereal flair

Its petals, a ghostly white

Glowing in the darkness of the night

Majestic and otherworldly, it sways in the breeze

Entrancing all those who dare to appease

It's said to be haunted, by a spirit so old

Once a human, now a flower to behold

A tragic story, a love gone awry

But in its beauty, her spirit will never die

She dances among the trees, in a ghostly ballet

Her presence felt, in a haunting way

Her love for the orchid, forever bound

Her essence lingers, with every petal found

But as the moon rises high in the sky

A plot twist, catches every eye

For the Ghost orchid, is not just a flower

It's a guardian, of a mystical power

As spirits of the swamp, try to cause harm

The Ghost orchid, raises its magical arm

With a burst of light, and a whispering spell

It banishes the darkness, and all is well

So let us not fear, this ghostly sight

For the Ghost orchid, is a protector of the night

A symbol of love, and a symbol of might

A flower so divine, in its ghostly light.

Dripping, a slow heat that suffocated as it lifted you into summer. I was twenty-four and had nothing to prove. I walked through the Yale University art museum while my best friend sat in front of a likeness to Michelangelo, tracing the every curve of people from history. What we didn't know was: we were creating our very own.

There was a white hydrangea plant outside of a church on the Yale campus. It created words inside my brain that hung like the branches themselves: sentences turned to paragraphs while my twenty-four year old self beamed and touched each flower. It was the happiest time of my life.

I was free. I went to bars and ordered margaritas with the abandon of the bees that sucked on the hydrangea's blossoms. I remember that plant, not only because I took copious pictures of it (although that, too), but because it was there only to be loved.

It was ninety degrees and the humidity lurked, turning into ghosts that I can only reminisce about in the present day. The heat seemed to evaporate as soon as it appeared. The hydrangea remained strong, tethered to the earth. It didn't seem bothered by anything, only happy to further illuminate the already piercingly bright day.

dead rose petals strewn clog

the hard arteries of my heart

your requested favorite

expensive frail fleeting

a dozen for a benjamin

thornless stems hand plucked

least you bled while arranging

them in that crystal vase kept

above the fridge for especially

expecting my deposit ransom

for an exchange kiss hug fuck

too soon dead rotting scummy

stinking water dried dead petals

shriveled crimson mouse ears

brief transitory cursory fading

your fragrance suffocates me

Crocus is the Bertha

of flowers...

by the harsh 

cold nomification

and hard edge

pronunciation,

that emphasizes

labor over beauty,

breadth of sentiment

in personification

and the notion

that Rose

is also

a difficult name

to say in duration

however

germane...

it doesn't either

roll sprightly

as its scent might

from soft velvet petals

on thorned stem

in heat of summer...

The small and mighty

dust of the lowly

bloomed Crocus,

pale and lilaceous

over the crusted

evaporating snow,

weighing in

with 24 karats

dust of saffron,

most precious

gold flavored

Spring...

and I plant this

strange light bulb

into the topsoil

with great hope,

and hoarse voice

to signal

for me

the end

of winter

04.19.2024

...a favorite flower... challenge @Last

Like all pretty things, she came into this world armed.

Many desire to touch her beauty, going so far as to snip any defense from her to fit their aesthetic.

The cruelty of it all, is their greed only serves to destroy the very thing they seek.

She is believed to be weak, for she truly only lasts a week.

How could any last when stolen from their life source?

A symbol of love, but who would finally love her, leaving her rooted?