The most beautiful anemone is the
iris of the eye.
Ethereal when alarmed by love,
modest in its nakedness.
It does not lie,
because it cannot lie.
It opens the window to the heart.
Black with fear.
Black in passion.
Mercurial, watching dancers.
Color of violets, emeralds,
fallen chestnuts,
shower gray in the shy,
corona of black moons,
quivering in wonder, adulation,
second sight,
still, as the sightless see
in front of death.
It encircles what we love,
what we hate,
what is never understood,
what we choose to be our truth.
It is the flower of our face
where the garden of our soul is.