In Love with a Flower (Part 2)

To stand in front of a flower,
feel the flicker of its eyelash,
and see the sun skip like a pebble
in the space that sinks between us.

With the verdure of its leaves,
so close that I could touch them,
could stop and slide a finger
between the straps of its green dress,
or print my name in shallow spirals
on the emerald of its palm.

But not doing any of these things,
just to stand there,
and see nothing in its eyes but
the light of an ocean,
or a mirror undisturbed
by the lines of a reflection.
And it likewise looking up,
from inside
the sinuousness of its stem,
and seeing nothing in my image,
but myself.