The Secret Code of Flowers

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 brush

and the consecration

of the palette knife,

the flowers were born

out of creation---

becoming more human.

with every stroke.

Klimt’s sunflowers

formed a soul

Kusama made her blossoms

quiver with the hallucinations

of childhood

and Van Gogh’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.