You generate in me the forces of light needed to curl me open come springtime. To curl me open. To curl me. You generate in me the forces of springtime.

I fade only so I can bloom again and rise in ecstasy in its own time. In its own time, I rise again in ecstasy. In its own time, it happens.

My curves move, my sepals elongate so I can bloom like a rose, a kalanchoe, a morning glory, and a night-blooming flower towards the source of your light. So I can bloom. So I can bloom dynamically despite my incoherent cries.

All desires distilled into three boundless desires. Life, Flowers, and Beauty. To pour forth desire. To pour forth. To pour forth by natural process, desire. Desire that does not curl in but curls out so they will not notice me but notice you who holds and upholds me. My calyx. A fragrant strong path. An impetus for perfect phototropism, expanding acts of poetry, remodernism, and lyrical expressions. And impetus for devine directional growth.

The imperfections, I see. I see the beauty. I see the beauty in the imperfections. There, is the light. The light that shines into me that becomes me. So I become a new way of seeing. I become a new way of becoming, a new language. A language of flowers. A language of light.

I fade only so I can bloom again and rise in ecstasy in its own time. In its own time, I rise again in ecstasy. In its own time, it happens. All flowers will dance, all pedals will bloom, all sepals elongate and rise. In its own time, it happens.

copyright ©2012 naomibacker

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