Swollen, dark, bulblets at the axils of each of your whirled leaves,
Pointing upwards, as if a sign of your fertility,
Painting you the most sexual of all beasts.
You are almost waiting here tonight,
Like a siren, intent on seducing the entire month of July.
Petals melting back,
Daring the touch of a humming bird's tongue,
Then declaring the act Erotic.
Sometimes I think you wish you didn't wear the clothing of a vixen,
The only lily that doesn't hold the copy write to a lonely face, so people could
Find your fragility before they plucked you to watch you wilt in a prison of glass,
With no sky to look upon, and to love you.
East Asian native, garden escapee,
Your spots instead of dew drops look like blood stains on orange satin,
Bleeding through, until they end up drying on your blossom,
Maybe because you are the one who hides your battle scar
Beneath a forest of stamen, reaching outward,
Cupid infected and pollen tipped.
These grass blades stare at you as if wishing they were worth notice,
Yet you are the one never satisfied with having represented enough color for the world to recognize.
Don't you know,
You are the one with whom the departing side of the day chose to leave its claim!
Don't you know,
You are part of the sunset's array, of mango colored children!
