A Zinnia In Guyana

Zinnia is my name, and so are the names of a myriad in my field. Just another flower I am, lost in the vast orchard of dreams

All’s well with me you thinketh. Whether the sky is fiery or blurry, I dance with my floral umbrellas

You suppose how gentle as a fern I am, for I come with no thorns. But who cared to ask, what a Zinnia truly feels?

Whilst I work, kicks and kisses of bees and butterflies, I receive. Some out of my invitation, and some that I detest, for I never protest

Smitten by lament I am, by the buzzing rumours of the bees. When I learnt that roses are picked for love than a Zinnia, jasmines are preferred by gods than a Zinnia, I have no tears to rain but only petals to shed

All I long for is a home, an earthly mud pot, out in the sunlight and breeze, but abandoned I am, on a forgotten street

Folklores of the Zinniverse speak about a legend, that will come from a distant land, to visit the Zinnitown and grasp one of us from the horde

And so I dream, before all my petals are shed, before my pores halt breathing, that a hand of god with lines akin to my veins, will lift this flaming goddess from its eternal solitude

Lo! What’s that strange touch of consciousness? Is that some tarantula holding my visage?

Oh! is it the legend? oh! it is the legend! Am I the chosen one out of a zillion zinnias?

I no longer shy under the sun, and quiver under the breeze. Here I am, still as an owl at midnight, flaunting my floral skirt

Why wait any longer? pluck me from bondage and take me with you. In zenith, I will be, you by my side, until my colour fades

Back to grief, must this Zinnia go? For I do not understand why you have not plucked me, yet

Although it’s obvious, to you and me, and the Zinniverse that we are perfect together, than not, why have you released me back to my orchard?

As I bent my stem down, I am reminded of who I am, once again. A Zinnia in a Zinnitown, nothing more, nothing less

As you walk away, in search of finer charms, turn back to me, please, turn back to me, once again. Touch my scarlet fingers and feel my voice out, once again

I never dress like a lily but always a Zinnia, I never pretend to bathe under the drizzles of scented rose water but scentless hazy rain, for I am what I am, unabridged and original

Awaiting I was, awaiting I am, awaiting will I be?

Holding on to my amber spiral ring, on top of a cerise blanket of despair, back to my dace I go

Blending deep into the damp clay, scattering my earthly fingers, a resurrection I await