I was painting flowers today
or flowers were painting me.
I tried to stop it, tried to depict something else
something more of value,
but what can I do if my fingers yearn for petting petals
unearthing the frailty, extruding the ashen out of my pores.
My fingertips danced budding forth creation
till my dimples blossomed,
I could sense life’s fragrant fuel
and the sun was humming a golden hue.