All
flowers are sexy
and
yet innocent. They are plants’ sex organs.
Like butterflies out of their cocoons,
they enter into a frenzy of mating
and die shortly in content.
A rose bears her heart
with her juicy redness,
and her obvious intention
to love or to be loved.
A chrysanthemum wears a smile,
and nods in the wind,
an invitation to befriend.
A lotus stands in aloofness
with an air of being a high-born,
but she seems smiling in secret
if you pay homage
to her in worship.
A rhododendron blossom
is most guileless and direct.
She simply reveals her loneliness
and a need to be accompanied.
Most of them laugh and scream
like cats’ cries in spring.
But they are most lovely
with purposes of their own.
They live like us, especially poets.
A drive to self-preserve for eternity
prompts a flower to bloom.
2015/3/29
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