The Languages of Flowers

Summer promises with blue eyes Some passing fancy for the multitude Some half remembered ritual, But never speaks of love - or love's desire. And we are contraband in a stolen moment; Empty cradles rocking in an empty room Pastel whispered endearments to sleeping ghosts Who wax eloquent on nothing much When awake To while away some twilight time. In the languages of flowers Placed down for style in human terms, Infinity lives in an orchid corsage Pressed between the pages of a book That has no lock and lays forgotten... No lasting worth beyond the last dance. And the languages of flowers are misspelled forever; How much stronger in their meaning when first bestowed. The silence in their words fills the air with fragrances That last far beyond the memory of one summer's evening... No matter how special However far away.... In all the sweetest whisperings, Why ask how this can be... It probably has something to do with the warranty.