The Realm of Flora, Reimagined.

The evergreen and the deciduous yearn for one another’s company,

To intertwine their vines as one again.

Starved of touch and camaraderie,

They age with April’s adolescent ache.

Delay their reunion, I say.

Let me pluck the leaves from each branch before they get chance.

Paint them as burnt and iridescent of an orange,

To confound the crowns of the trees,

And the scents of the soil,

So they surrender their seasonal resurrection to you.

And bow quietly, they will,

To your garden’s tendered mortality.

Then beat, your’s may,

In a Perpetual Primavera.

Still time, there be,

To live twice the day.

Let me fan the buds on the precipice of their bloom,

Guise myself as the East Wind, Euros.

If not to grant pistil and stamen an extra season of slumber,

And of asylum in the arms of their petal,

Then to at least convince Chloris of a misread calendar.

So, with you, she’ll remain.

As nymph to the underworld of the worthy, again.

And there, in the Elysian Fields of your home,

She’ll churn wealth,

Like straw to gold,

From the ground beneath your feet.

Freed from her Zephyrian grasp at last,

Beguiled by my work with frost and dew,

As smoke and mirror,

She’ll retire gladly with you.

And sigh softly, she will,

With restful repose.

Reimagined, The Realm of Flora,

As brush to paint,

And paint to metamorphose.

Her head finally lay,

She’ll bestow unto the blades of your Earth,

The kiss of an eternal May.