Spring

             Here we are on another Friday in May, sneezing as allergy season is upon us. But who can hate spring? The cold weather has finally left us, and all of the flowers!
             Flowers have been important throughout the history of literature in many different kinds of metaphors, but poetry has perhaps brought them to their pinnacle. After all, who knows better of flowery language than a poet? And as a neophyte in everything literary, here's my take on poetry and flowers; I also threw some love in there for good measure.

Love is a Bouquet

 Love is a bouquet
filled with pretty, little, flowers.
Sometimes they’re lilies,
daffodils, or posies.
Other times they’re marigolds,
orchids, or roses.

Bought just before its prime,
blooming and blossoming
before the recipient’s eyes –
baby’s breath; breathing
cocks comb; combing
poppies; popping
and bird of paradise; paradizing.

Love is a bouquet
in full bloom.
Smelling so sweetly,
like a French perfume,
petals fanned out
in carnal symmetry:
beauty incarnate;
the epitome.

Love is a bouquet
three weeks old.
The flowers, all dead
and dieing.
Dried out, brown,
hard and stale.

Death’s selfish fingers
do impose –
even on roses,
posies, and marigolds.

Love is an empty vase.

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Á bientôt,

Tobias