Dusky Rose

    
Do you still drink

of my succulence
in the hot July heat 
of a faraway dream,
my ethereal scent of geranium
rising from your night sweat,

a fragrant, poignant memory?
You know 

my taste is sweet,

that of plumeria honey.
Flowering in the sensate garden 

of my bed,

I turn towards you,
in vivid sleep.

You are my beloved ghost,
cradled in the flourishing vines
of my arms.

You may see me

as a Venus fly trap,
cunning and expedient.

But I am not that, no.
I am a dusky rose,

carefree and forgiving.
A beautiful flower,

unwittingly planted

in the dark soil

of your mind.
Pua Nani.

Nature Falls In Love

Today I am sharing this poem again in celebration of Purim and Nowruz, two festivals of early spring renewal and revelry, that may share ancient roots

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In Springtime,

all of nature

falls in love.

The air is wet

with arousal,

fragrant with pollen

and the scent

of raw need.

In springtime,

our bodies ache towards each other

like the First Man

and First Woman did,

the first time they made love,

when the heavens opened up

and the gods applauded like thunder

and a million flowers took latin names

and carved their shapes

out of the green pith

of possibility,

blossoming into a full rainbow

of lurid colors.

In springtime,

clouds cry their heavy tears

that seep into the land,

feeding plants, nourishing roots,

shaking off the sadness of death

that winter brings.

The Earth opens

like a mouth

to receive

the Sun’s kiss.

Love shines.

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