Begonias

Pluck the sweet pink-and-whites,
trace their ruffles, blushing
fingertips on lips;
warmth and the smell of
melting caramel.

Some sweetness lingers;
some beauty,
touching the wrong mouth,
leaves death in its wake.

In The Garden

I am alone in the loveliest way
twining petunias in my hair,
and cupping the showy begonias. I am
full of love in the loneliest way,
the way that wishes to share and
show something wonderful with another.

I am learning to be with others,
my tongue seeking out syllables though
it is not used to the cadence.

I am learning to be by myself,
and there’s nothing harder
in such a beautiful garden.