Every Woman is a Flower

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every woman blooms
in the veldts of existence,
spreading her own
unique fragrance,
her typical smile radiant
on variegated face.

some are like
the redolent rose abloom
with scented sighs,
blossomed excuse of
satin softness amid
the sharp, prickly thorns,
the reason for dewdrops to
linger longer on
the satin soft cheeks
of vermilion dawn.

some are demure
as those tiny wildflowers,
speckling vagrancy
of the obscure weeds,
lost in haze of anonymity
but adding their breaths
to redolent potpourri
of versicolor spring~
beauty yet undiscovered.

some are golden daffodils
smiling in winter’s lukewarm morn,
too preoccupied by
narcissistic self love to
pay heed to beauties around,
or appreciate ethereal grace
of the others in life.

others are orchids,
of exotic taffeta and
exclusive tastes and scent,
unlike the commonplace daisies,
simpering with delight,
in trifling joys of existence.

some are lilies, pure and sublime
as virgin frost
or moonbeam-spun dreams
bejeweled in dewdrops of
modesty, humility and veracity,

and some are poppies
sultry in gowns of scarlet,
with allure in their smiles and
intoxication in their kiss,
leading the enamored
down the path of misfortune.

some smile as wisteria~
blooming kisses of twilight on
slender and frail vines,
entwining tendril-arms on
supporting trunks of strength,
always quailing and dependent
without stamina to
endure life’s myriad vagaries.

some are lovelorn sunflowers,
gay and blissful only
when basking in soft glow
of the beloved’s presence and
drooping in gloom
when separated from love.

some are hursinghars~
insomniac creatures of nocturne,
smiling as sweet evensongs
in the moonlit nights
and sung in homage
as dawn’s saffron-white aubade
their fragrance lingering
in nostrils of memories long after
they whither from
ephemeral stalks of life.

a few are frangipanis,
outwardly a serene white,
but with a firefly of passion aglow
within scented depths
of the introvert soul,

other are lotuses so pure
blooming in muddy ditches,
so unblemished
despite the filth they
blossom from.

one of them is an amaranth
not ethereally beautiful
and fragile as prettier flowers,
but with strength in her sinews,
grit in her stance,
facing hardships without
quailing and withering away…

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One thought on “Every Woman is a Flower

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