Air is filled with golden drips,
and the twinkling bees
want some lips—
to kiss, miss, and see
the floral, fruity, earthy mist.
Bass clef notes hanging, playing,
dancing in the three-fold air;
heart beats, thomps, races.
The mellifluous mallow's face;
it's not sad, it's not happy—
just bittersweet.
Such a wild thing,
such a soft sting,
sprawling its funnel string.
Swinging, wisping the muddy array,
I'm in so much awe!
The dearest, darling of all,
the darkest, dimming fall.
Every night,
every fight, each light
becomes tenderly saccharine,
delightful blooms in mucilage rush.
Swish, swish.
Are you pleasant? Are you glacé?
I am both a viridian and a shell.
Come, make a wish, a wish.
Beneath these bushes,
I have my whole life in it.
Amidst the shying horses,
I have my whole life figured out.
Wild, marigolds, and arrows;
I've had a firm hold of myself,
you can't take away or borrow.
The mallow does not let itself be teared
yet it let itself be touched.
When mellow melody sings,
it is not to give up,
it is to soften.
It loves to break, break, and ache
in a blissful way,
in a broken, by and by,
in an exhale beguile.
In the waft, near the leaflet,
musk so sweet
but ants never wanted it.
Mass malvasia went away,
march to the left,
chose that dry meadow
close to the dyed window,
some never bloom that way.
Marrow mallow is flowing
it is vital, it is . . .
mucilaginous!
What?
All I know is—
it is not damaging,
just a little sleeping idle,
striving, seeking to go for broke in the middle.
This mask I wear is not fake,
it is adapting.
This is not performance,
it is protecting.
It does not mean I am cautious nor mysterious,
it is just I love the live in me.
It is mauve, the color of love,
the soothing salve in my burning skin—
the hue of my dignity.
Between the sun,
between the leaves,
I see the grieves, and take the beam.
If the midday melon is green,
why is white the color of its seeds?
If the moon mallow is clean,
why its veins have dimmer beads—
is it that afraid to be seen?
Or is it just like that when a wild thing grows sheen,
in all of the hunger, flourishes kinder.
Shall we walk, wait, or run?
If I could leap as high as a fly,
if I could be as serene as the feather in the sky,
this foot wouldn't have to so much try.
In March, the marsh is slippery tight,
in May there, it was almost always night.
Wildflowers reside, not fearing the blight.
You can see it bloom every Spring,
also in Fall.
The mush mallow is pale,
it is deep, bright and alive.
