“Georgia O’Keefe is over-rated,” I overhear the museum patron behind me say, and I cannot help but internally agree, however there is something so enticing about this flower, one of many such blooms, not all would hear her call, yet she catches my eye, not once but a multiplicity of times, but I garner the courage to approach her, to marvel at all she has laid bare for me to see. My breath catches as I recognize that she has bloomed under my sybaritic gaze, plump and timid her long white petals curve and fold sensually, harboring a hypnotic power, they spread invitingly, revealing gossamer mouths of blue veins absorbing sensation. My fingers slowly trace the paper-thin fronds to the pod where the rush of blood infuses life, each layer more alluring, I seek the elixir, the nectar within, my face buries in the field of color overcome by the taste of the fleshy pulp hidden within the flower, exotic, captivating, her feelings overlap with mine and I cannot tell us apart, our secrets have mingled and we are tangled pistils, without stamens to get in our way. I seek her center, where the fragrance is strongest and I can drown in the vibes. Waves of her consciousness blossom with each new response and I am now helpless under her spell. The moment that germinated with a gentle painting has now culminated in a momentous monsoon of floral spasms. My flower arches her slender back then as if a storm had come and passed she sinks into the bed and sighs