What Flowers See

I find myself Bella Donna, its purple

awning, the herbs, the Thyme, the Dill, the Parsley,

a naked lady in the sun, her people

are still below her bloom, a lily story.

Are you Amaryllis or Atropea

and like the fate who cut the ribbon of life

a flower speaks through ontomapeia,

to tell a tale of color, her own hard strife.

When body spoke the song of your lost wedding.

"Is this what body says", emphasis on attack.

When thorned branches took her love flying

to die a gruesome horrible death. Her payback

To every noble bloom that shades the living,

a plague, "no fantasy, only lunacy,"

a germ more apt for taking then for giving.

You made sweet death to whisper, "you amaze me."

So Bella Donna, sent away from deaths hymns,

beside the stacks of carnage left by disease,

to take a stand against the fate that took him,

and noble bloom a like, will pay these staunch fees.

A snow to decompose under an icy

stalagmite, water flows down lonely slope,

snow melt, an act removed from Earth's history,

and spring upon the soil a seedling of hope.

Even though she feels her beauty through her bloom,

a curse, remains a curse through all of times tricks.

Over the herbs she'll blossom to spread her gloom,

a place alone away from other mavericks.

These epic quatrains echo in my garden,

these stories seem to settle in her root ends.

Here Bella Donna asks for silent pardon,

a season when her wounds can quietly mend.

An allegory that does not touch my life.

In soil where fingers find their way around the worm,

to tell a tale of color, sorrow, hard strife,

ignore the pain when planting, pushing soil firm.

I find myself Bella Donna, her purple

awning the herbs, the Thyme, the Dill, the Parsley,

a naked lady in the sun, her people

are still below her bloom, a strangled lily.