The Language of Flowers

Comments Off on The Language of Flowers Art of Writing, Poetry, Writing, Issue 7

By Nora McClellan

The language of flowers
I’ve loved and lost and loved again
Through it all, my bleeding heart 
Stays evergreen — passionate and on my sleeve

My first crush was a lilac—
Sweet, hopeful, and fading with the seasons.

Then she came along. I told myself 
She was a daisy,
The flower of friendship— because I
Couldn’t want her that way,
Wouldn’t let myself want her that way
Until I saw my feelings 
For what they were— a red carnation 
Of yearning desire.
I can see her in my mind,
Those forget-me-not blue eyes,
And after all this time, I remember—
She watered the hidden parts of me
Allowing those flowers to bloom to the light

My love for him was a field of poppies
So enticing, I dove in headfirst,
The red blooms sending me to sleep— ignoring
How horribly he treated me, the cruelty
An insidious addiction— until
I woke up, smelled the flowers,
And escaped the tumultuous battlefield
He had put me through.

I have admired from afar 
A blue rose— Stunning and impossible 
To grow. But if it had been attainable,
Would it have been quite so intoxicating?

In high school, I fell in love with my best friend
We went to prom together— a corsage 
Of dandelions on my wrist,
What I shared with him was as 
Joyous and whimsical and natural
As those bright yellow weeds— until 
The flowers wilted. I sobbed out on the steps
Rejected as a lover— but seeds grew
Back once more, new dandelions blossomed as
We learned to be friends again, like before

Loving her was a field of sunflowers
She warmed my heart like a summer’s day—
With her everything felt so bright
And I couldn’t keep the smile off my face

People have loved me, their affection
Invasive weeds— I prune them away 
But they grow back, ever persistent 
For a spot in my garden

One day I picked a red rose— I thought 
It would be everything I had ever dreamed of 
And more, a love for the ages, that would finally satisfy
the part of me longing to be whole— until
I ripped the petals off and all I gripped was 
A stem of thorns from the flower
I had destroyed.

And you—
You are seeds newly sown,
But will the stems ever 
Push through the earth and see 
The light of the sun? Will I reap a fruitless 
Harvest? Will they bloom,
But wilt with the seasons? Or will the love 
Be beautiful, fragrant, perennial? I can’t know—
I’m just waiting—waiting for our flowers
To grow 

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