(Poem 120 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Our most fragile young
sleep in giant moonflowers
and sip the nectar if they are
hungry between feedings.
When they outgrow the
petal-perfect beds nature
constructed just for them,
they learn to sleep on the
knit hammocks strung
delicately between the
lowest branches of the
swaying willow palm trees.
The cloth is woven from
flower stem silk and the
bedding is fresh layered
petals changed nightly.
Our skin becomes the
fragrance of the flowers,
for we are inextricably
intertwined with the vines
and the leaves and the
fronds and the buds.
Then, when we grow too
old to see the stars with
our own eyes, too old
to hear the song of the
silver sycamore boughs,
too old to feel the velvet
of the lambs’ ear bush,
too old to taste the nectar
of the purple dragonmint,
we enter the heart of the
forest to create a nest of
shaggy moss and jelly lichen
cushioned with sweetgrass
and honey death fungus,
and cover ourselves with
layers of galaxy orchids and
phoenix lilies so we can
join our brother flowers in
eternal sleep.

@Home Studio – 120^th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Alien Flowers photos to accompany my poem: