Picking Flowers
1.
A violet rose may rise from rubble,
leathery petals poking gingerly upwards with a slight swoop,
ripe stem, stingy about rattling wind,
barely peeking above the taller grains,
stealing all the sun will give,
just starting to spread into its true form.
2.
I've collected daffodils, jasmine, sunflowers, and all.
Tucked into my jeans, leaning elegantly waving
to those weary wanderers passing by. I can't decide
which smells the best, keep asking each particular nose
to choose the fragrant champion so I can finally rest. No
way to distinguish from them and along the mountain sides
I still attract fancier foliage that tug at my eyes and
flair
my nostrils. Is scent a curse, a bane?
I can't decide.
3.
There once was a ghost lily that fell in love
but it couldn't be seen.
How many times he passed by her without perceiving
her fluttering petite palms calling.
If only I could sing, she thought, then he'd
surely saunter over to my mellifluous sound.
In her dreams, he whispers about a smile that
seizes all motion, that resembles the sun.
I know love only through sight, she nods,
and in his sight I see.
Never failing to dance with his exact steps,
the ghost lily lounges in his comforting shadow,
waiting for the moment he'll finally turn around.
