Petunia, aren’t you afraid of the wolves?...

Say the seed is one to trample into narratives from love devoured.

Who spoke to flowers other than the lady who wrote of odd things?...

I had written of flowers since I was first gazing from the womb.

Needless to say the darkness loved the light.

 I am the lit bulb in the room everyone forgets and remembers...Perhaps, no longer.

Something upon the tip of the evenings tongue remains indistinguishable to its own shadows, that come hithering into my nameless warmth...

Petals of petunia, the fire blazes and seeks a scent...As humanly as you are, cinder the blossoms undetectable.

The wolves they sit around innocently. 

At times resembling lost men. Nothing more than a portal into lost spaces, hungry to search.

But, who found you precious petunia?

Poetic narrative.

Sacred blossom.

Clear the field of wolves trampling.

For a man that knows how to love and remember.

 

 

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata