Part of What Makes Me

I play with my fruit, talk to tart and sweet alike, let my tongue (and teeth) love it from peel to flesh to seed… I love a good piece of fruit, invite its lush to fill me, to become part of what makes me, to see the shape of me (from the inside).

I found a moist heart
chilling, just staring at me,
begging for a bite

 

“Passionflowers are weeds”, you say to me, your disdain for the bohemian bloom as ludicrous as the possibility of your opinion mattering to my garden (or to me).

“I’ve always thought of you as invasive, parasitical, and not at all pretty”, I say to you. “Aren’t you glad that laws (and people) I respect find you useful?”

my passion
flowers in wild twists,
by nature

 

My favorite place in the hospital blooms and buzzes in July. The chant feeds my all. I sit on grass, thoughts crowned by coneflowers, fingertips slow dancing with soil. Passersby glance, smile, or shake their heads (as if trying to dispel the slow-death escaping the chimneys they have made of their nostrils). The honeyed buzz, the life-song, the winged dance is ended by puffs of smoke. The coneflowers and I droop a little, wondering why…

bees and blooms
do it perfectly,
why not us?

 

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

 

To Warm Me

She is a monster waiting to swallow the world. Really. Look at her (maw at the ready, lips as sharp as blades) waiting to bloom into something bright and beautiful that promises to take your breath away. Fine, so she will keep you from breathing by being all stunning and stuff, but your brain will still starve for air… um, I might’ve taken this metaphor a bit too far *cough*.
Anyhoo, from this angle, doesn’t my amaryllis look like a glorious monster about to swallow something whole? At first, I wondered if she was working with Cthulhu, but… no tentacles. So, she’s probably a free (freaky) agent.

Yes, my Wicked Luvs, you are correct. This is how my plants and I survive winter (and those long…….. periods between recovering/healing and more medical procedures to come—we birth tales, giggle and cackle at wondrous (if silly) things. All right, I tell the tales. But my plants are great listeners.

to warm me and mine,
I (will) spring stories
out of snow in March

in my urban woods,
limbs stiff but spread wide, I wait
for the kiss of spring