Dear Flower, 

I might describe you with a label I once was taught, or proudly exclaim you with accuracy, from my limited knowledge of florals. 

I might give you fame, by taking your photo. Showing you off to a world you have no idea of, as you get blown in the gentle breeze. 

I may be struck in the heart, by the memory you evoke. 

I may see you and think to myself, what can I do with you. 

I might invite your scent to invade my sense, with a close up breath, or a dalliance close near to my nose. 

I might rejoice in the actuality of your existence and the season in which your colours you become. 

I might delight in the colours that play in the iris of my eyes. 

I might stop and feel your petals touching my skin, fingerprint on velvet, delicate on precious. 

I might wonder at how your erotic essence attracts the bees, and watch their dance upon your stems of arousal. 

I might embrace the bliss of the butterfly, her legs teetering on your structure, the gift of your landing pads for the symbols of healing. Then she closes and hides on you. 

But in the end. 

Let me get all of me out of the way.

For. 

You are just beauty. 

And beauty requires me to see.

Actually. It requires none of me. 


With and beyond all what is also

To your truthful being. 


Accepting the grace of your essence on the earths richness. 
And I slow down to be.

For often you're shy. Taking your time. 
To reveal who you are. 

Beauty that is. 
Beauty you are. 

And I in Awe.