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Who let the sun
get in among those
daffodils!
Rose, by any name the same,
what is it that by any name
you are?
Sunrise touches
pale flowers, turning each
to gold.
Irises - pink, blue,
yellow - sun-licked, moist
candy-sweet colors.
All week, rain -
up easy, roots and all,
the drunken weeds.
A burst milkweed pod:
The untrained parachuters
cling, trembling.
Silent, a racket
of blackberry-thorn jungles,
ivy and toadstools.
The noiseless thicket seems to be, in itself, a
kind of noise.
In the flower's cup
sleeps a star, dreaming
of dew.
Perhaps a star reflected in a droplet caught in
the flower's "cup".
Splitting peas from pods -
cool taste, crisp
as the pod's POP!
Azalea buds,
bomb-shaped, banging out
origami blossoms.
Eat your hearts out, origami artists, at the intricate
folding of a flower inside its bud.
Tight-folded buds --
a child fingers them:
What will they be?
That last line might refer to the buds (and be the
question that intrigues the children) or the children.
Flowers folded up
in buds. When they unfold,
where are the creases?
Bits of white
peeping from the green bud --
a badly folded flag.
Flowers and flags --
do flags contain the sex organs
of nations?
Uprooting weeds, I tug
on a slant stem...up it comes --
Oops! A day lily.
These flowers -- cloying.
What smells so candy sweet can't
be good for me.
Blue morning glories
rush over the wall at me,
fall short, hang, gawking.
Water so still
the lilies drift. Tiny Vs
where bugs skate.
The water moves, but imperceptibly, the lilies seeming
to drift.
Day-lily: The sex parts
curve up, come-hither fingers
to bees.
The green shoot
grows stiff and wooden --
a disappointment?
The flower you see
is never the flower I
don't see.
That is, never the flower I imagine?
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