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Dormant buds, sleeps all morning,
Afternoon arrives, a magical calling.
Starry veins, rosy cheeks,
Gilded maidens, vibrant streaks.
Lilac hues, scarlet tints,
Flaxen fronds, mischievous glints.
A bell-shaped visage, a frail décolletage,
The four o'clock flower,
Possesses a wonderful heritage.
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YOU ARE READING
The Forgotten Language of Flowers
PoetryFlowers are gentle beings. They whisper tales as old as time. But with the passage of father time, the inhabitants of mother earth have forgotten all about their tales. Now, it is but a forgotten language. Let us explore the secrets of the blossoms...
