It
is the month of flowers,
summer
past the cruelest month.
Brightly
the sun shines, but the streets are empty
Trees
are cut, banished; new edifices sprouting.
Flowers
are supposed to bloom,
gardens
must be filled with colors.
It
is summer now, three days ago, it was 46 degrees Celsius.
It
is almost sauna in our homes.
We
need to hydrate, dip in a firetruck.
I’m
licking the drops of my sweat like salt.
I
am gawking at the clouds, the drawings in the sky
their
shades and shadows, how they cast into new forms.
Flores
de Mayo is the pinnacle of this month
It
reminds me of my mother’s golden bracelet, one I dropped in the procession
I
can see the small wide flowers that do not stop blooming, its petite petals thriving
beside
the nostalgia of Chanel #5, my Dad’s favorite bloom.
It
is the month of flowers, we need to grow fragrances,
color
gardens, till the soil, and one small citrus perhaps.
Beat
the heat, the Queen rises in the skies
Our
Lady of Beautiful Love lords over cold and heat.
/rosalinda flores
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