Prose Poem - Geranium

I held the dramatically beautiful geranium gently in one ashen palm and told it, whispering, only whispering, of its redolence and darling gaze, which was everything to marvel for. Each petal was fine ivory and alabaster, charmingly supple and impossible, like a marble slab softening in the sun.

I maintained the dalliance between the flower and I as long as could be done, for our season was brief, following my selfish plucking of it from its comfortable emerald nesting at my ankles, stealing sustenance from lethal hornet and shade from musical jade cricket; satisfying only myself, and regrettably dissevering such a muse from life itself. What commonplace crimes we consign ourselves to, even within the most innocent confines of youth, we inflict the devastation of beauty, merely to investigate its loveliness.

Even so, I could barely contain my fierce internal ebullience for the natural thing, I have yet to, for it was faintly scented with petrichore; and because its fairness was not its own. All along, twas the very pureness of my love.