flowers

Gods must be crazyFlowers must be daisyClouds must be hazyWinds must be lazyWhat else it could be_My heart must be in love lately_

Sweet peas were the kind of flowers fairies slept in.

A fallen blossomreturning to the bough, I thought --But no, a butterfly.

In a rich moonlit garden, flowers open beneath the eyes of entire nations terrified to acknowledge the simplicity of the beauty of peace.

The earth laughs in flowers.

Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.

a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand;but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon,when I don't know, if you will ever come back.

since the thing perhaps isto eat flowers and not to be afraid

He didn't look anything like the blokes on that gay porn channel Rory had clicked on by mistake when he'd been trying to find out how to make a daisy chain for Leo.

It was Friday, so the farmers' market was in full autumnal swing, a sea of potted chrysanthemums and bushel after bushel of apples, pears, Fauvist gourds, and pumpkins with erotically fanciful stems. On one table stood galvanized buckets of the year's final roses; on another, skeins of yarn in muted, soulful purples and reds. Walter loved this part of the season- and not just because it was the time of year his restaurant flourished, when people felt the first yearnings to sit by a fire, to eat stew and bread pudding and meatloaf, drink cider and toddies and cocoa. He loved the season's transient intensity, its gaudy colors and tempestuous skies.

I take my metal canister of tea off the shelf. It is my own mixture of dried lavender blossoms and lemon balm, harvested from my garden and hung in the storeroom to dry. Weed helped me hang these stalks, I think. His hands touched these tender leaves, just as they touch me.

they saythey only wantflowersto grow frommy mouth,so i willlook themdeadin theeyeas ishovesoft petalspastmy lips,chewwithmy jawcompletelyunhinged,& spitthemdownattheir feet-i will never be your expectations of me

There's nothing quite like the pleasure you get from plants and flower," he said to himself. "They certainly do cheer you up.

Flowers are the sweetest things God ever made and forgot to put a soul into.

She hated the way roses smelled, their sweetness too fragile. She wanted a garden of evergreens. A garden of stones. A garden of swords.

Walking in the mountain with bare foot, Teasing the flowers with heavy soot, Touching the grasses, climbing the horses, swinging the girlsIt is joyful, jolly like the flying. Swimming in the rivers, tearing the clothes and burning the shoes Angel of the nature; counting the grasses, touching the flower, teasing the birds

During your struggle society is not a bunch of flowers, it is a bunch of cactus.

For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceansburned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and never would be again. But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out. It was my eighteenth birthday.