After all the thorns and deadly nails
only flowers I ask for.
Let them rise like a flock of fireflies
and descend quietly, in colors that do not offend.
Let them land on the bed like a benevolent foreboding
and cover tender girls
with feathers that do not wound.
Let bread be bought with flowers,
let a man be measured by flowers —
by what grows from the earth,
not by what wounds with the tongue.
Only flowers I ask for in poetry,
at least for a short while, the crystal air
in which one can breathe without shame.
To immerse myself in verse as in an air bath
full of beneficial scents.
Give me, poets, that geranium
from my mother\'s window,
and the spinner,
and my grandmother\'s fuchsia.
Give me the defiance that grows from the crack
in the brick in the yard —
for it too knows more about dignity
than a word that defiles.
With flowers I defend myself
from poetic pollution.
With flowers I remind
that the word is home.