The moonflower wakens to a sun
pulling all color
toward other hemispheres;
petals react to the unvoiced request of
this draining sky, motioned by nocturnal winds.
Through necessity the flower
knows itself:
no desire, no greed,
just the servile opening of its parts
to share with the world it inhabits.
Myself, consigned to the music of night,
can only dream of such proliferation
and hope to feel the pulsing nectar
deep within the flower as it senses
the beating wings of an approaching moth.
This visceral embrace masked by darkness,
without sound, is love,
love that is survival,
love that is the miracle of flowers
blooming in moonlight.
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