The Language of Flowers
by Theodora Goss

I tell the truth in flowers.
I open my mouth: out falls
a rose, a violet,
forget-me-nots, a lily,
a daffodil, until
my hands are full. How lovely,
and yet — what have I said?
What is this floral language,
and can it be sufficient
to communicate my meaning?
What if I want to curse?
What if my truth is dark
as garden loam, as scattered
as beetles? What will drop
from my mouth then? A rose
half-chewed, the petals tattered,
already disintegrating
as it drops into my hand?
As broken and as fragile
as words?

(The painting is Beatrice by Marie Spartali Stillman.)