27 Flowers

When Wordsworth wrote of Daffodils, Did he know his hearts pleasure would pale, indeed wane To the face of you, in my heart, a lily Casablanca no less! Eremurus stems forth, joyous yellow on green in my mind And of her, I breathe; the fragrance of a tuberose; primed!

And the day Shakespeare wrote of temperance quivers In being set in time, threatened; by colors of carnations bevy That sprinkle themselves, sigh, whence you walked by. Heather come! Gladiolus! Wing my heart! Carry me, Through halcyon hyacinths homes afar; where she be!

Tennysons moon, a ghostly galleon lost quails! Sinks! Confronted by those TuLips! Formed of perfection; Star gazer me upon that Lilac countenance of yours; Lost Larkspur and iniquity! Gloom be gone, entrepot anew in my lair, Hollyhock black met Damask rose; afraid to stain the rose so fair!

These starry skies bear witness to Byrons lady who once walked, Who all but crinkles, Bergenia she! To you in Periwinkle blue! Smitten I see, The life of a lotus led, divine, all else is to details reduced. Led by hand to a chrysanthemum bed, all the pain seduced!

By Jove! Coleridges mariner be alive in me, and tis no water that he seeks! Acacia thorned, this distance! A love so wronged, Id accept If by Iris and by flight of albatross, the distance be measured to end And monkshood, by choice, to partake and weather To a dried Salix, this beating heart; if only once, and then be tethered forever!

To this unconsummated love I weep, unmet by a Windflowers wand, While of the Winter breeze and his love, Frost wrote of timeless want. Been seeing the world through parched, Lavender Love in the Mist, Thus, submit I, to thee, False Bird of Paradise, I wait, and have waited long And with me waits this waits epitaph stoned, a Rose blooded red, and I, in song.

ABHINAV 27 Days of July, For her. She of the country of flowers!