THE SECRET CODE OF FLOWERS

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Ever since the days of 
Perfectly fitted waistcoats
silk top hats
And the dangled kid glove
When spring made its entrance
As rowdy as a saloon 
It became open season
For desire.
Inhibitions were lifted
Like a Crazy Horse skirt
And for the pocket empty artist,
His swivel-eyed lust
Carried him by ragged foot  to
The impossible distance of
color spattered fields, where 
armed with the seeds of paint,
He tried to figure out
The secret code of flowers
Which had spoken to him
In the confidence of God
since he was a child.

With the genuflection of 
The Hog’s bristle
And the consecration
Of the palette knife
The flowers were born 
out of creation
Becoming more and more human
With each and every stroke
The way Klimt’s sunflowers
Formed a soul
Kusama made her blossoms
Quiver with the hallucinations
Of childhood
And Van Gough’s violet irises
Wept with madness
From the asylum of
Saint-Remy-de-Provence.

And now
After all these years
The few that have survived
Besides the petals
interred in a copy
Of Wuthering Heights
Are the lilies of the pond
The Haverman vase and
The O’Keefe suggestion,
The wall-lined effigies of the ones
Who gave them life
Who are planted 
A million miles away
beneath the impossible distance 
of color splattered fields
Who wait 
As still as Pewter Jugs and Pink Statuettes
For the return of spring

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