The winged screech of the lion’s ear
The stabbed heart of the chrysanthe
After a series of walks to work you see
None have the time to smell the flowers
Let alone write about the smell of flowers
Let alone read the writing on the smell of flowers
The rudeness of the cyclamen
The burst cloud of the hollyhock
The smell of flowers is known only
To the young with their soft noses blown off
To the old who plot and potter away their days
The stabbed heart of the crocus
The broken stone of the lotus
