I want to read a piece from the wildflower prose
poems I did a few years ago.
This is called "Desert hibiscus."
"I think of bed sheets not quite warm and momentarily open,
ready to receive, in spring and summer lavender petals
reveal stamens and stigmas approaching center flower.
Leaves cold, dry light near the blooms
whose willingness, all gentle, forms an aura cloistering
whatever we project softer than velour, of
rose light and clear weather.