Hibiscus

by Pam Woolway

I never gave you a second glance;
scrappy, gangly hedge.
We met in California,
where the air is cracker-dry.
You were all bony hips and elbows,
interrupted by green leaf
and only an occasional bloom.
How wrong I was,
Senorita Hibiscus,
parachutes of color prostitute
themselves to bees and butterflies.
The buttery length of your
stamen, aptly approves
of bee legs and bee bottoms
to nudge, lift and probe
the long column of throat
that leads down to microscopic ova..
Your flowers are clownishly huge
and you wear your leaves,
you wear them like a flotilla
or the ruffled skirt of an Orisha;
all fabric layers and brown legs
with a face that dares the sun.
The wind tugs at your
soft petals, big ears of a beloved child.
And, oh what a nose!
You are not a shy flower.
Two hours ago
the hot pink of your playera,
tight as a Cuban cigar,
uncoiled.
But, tomorrow,
the seduction is over;
a flaccid wet ribbon,
spent and gray,
stares glumly at the grass.