The flowers are fluorescent, falsettoing

look at her, blowing her bubbles, 

to watch Earth throw up her arms, 

giving her bare chest to the sun, 

shrubs of jasmine are cursive

to the nose, breasts upturned, 

as God and her gouache

have a field day, under a layer

of blond, wisteria bundles

are indulgence for the onlooker. 

To be lacquered in green, 

gardenias just the used tissues

of those who missed the warmth, 

to be budding 

and withering feels worlds away, again.