The Poetic Flowers, at the Botanical Gardens

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As the cluster-flowered Iceberg Floribunda roses, with a yellow eye unjaundiced of health contained in the pistil, with smooth alabaster and white petals languaged in the content of heavenly sleep, shaped as Africa’s diamonds, hymn tranquilite praise to the rancied and misty shade of Nature within its holiday shrub; as the ruby majesty of the Marlena roses, with green and leavy ivies under its stems, flows as currency of the salt washes in the Atlantic beneath the world’s blow of troubulous airs; as the likes of mossy green weeping willows complement the content in discontent of each creeping thing that would to enjoy this albany of a garden, above is only sky, teal and turquoise blue in its impressions, without any to rage as Achilles and die off a Hector, no war on terrors other than the battling cumulonimbus clouds and modern wright flyers disrupting the meditative scene. No Medeas redunding and shouting argument to fleece-ridden Jasons; no Medusas out to stone an uncultured boy; no Apollos are out for a Daphne; only the soul laughter-loving Venus within the spirits, as Cupid arrows his loving quivers for all to admire the one rose, of one rose, of one rose, and all the other meditative roses making the first and final appearance among the buds burst for Springtime –and lo! he bows love to mine bosom to the helianthus salicifolius, the willowing autumn-gold sunflower with love in its brown pupil; they ask How do you do? though really they try to mouth the words I love you in their flowery dialogue, clumped together in their perennial. And there, another: helianthus annuss, the common and divine sunflower, with each brethren containing a wide-eye of Horus, attracting the ancient honeymakers to visit its museum of love and exchange their stingy nature for an ounce of happiness. The winds are unpolluted nosegays, and smell as an innocent virgin laughing her way off to a sunset; and along this scene’s background, a neptune of assorted blueness sculpture the setting with reflexive niceties in the clear skin of the waves, and permits lowly vessels to enjoy their ship along the coast and draft. Along the way, the American flag waves with the wind; but here, in the agrostis tenuis ornamental green floor and grasses of these poetic gardens, Damon and Pythias enjoy assorted pasttimes; under the unbeiged summer house Pyramus requits his Thisbe; and by the oxydendrum arboreum, the tree called of the lily vallies, near a formal bed of magentas, strawberry-petals, and other yellow-scaled tulips surrounded by the grand orchestra of whitèd daisies, there is no quintessential figure of genius, a one of heavenly spite, perverting the fortune of these times, nor figure of Strepsiades deconstructing the clouds for a vortex, but only that of sons and fathers, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters alike picnicking and sharing lunchables to the wondrous visage of the gardens –with flowers, flowers, and the more delights of the senses caressing the futile encumbrance away of this scene.

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