more anthurium

To You, Anthurium

We found you growing with your family, behind a building which is now unoccupied, except for maybe a rodent or two. Was that your choice? Carol picked you, to bring into the house; she cut your stem, put you in water and placed you on the kitchen table. Now, I am looking at you — your face is huge, and red, with an appendage which if it were on my face, would be a rather large nose. But that doesn't bother me so much as your hardness — although we haven't spoken a word, I feel a hardness which is unusual in a flower. You are a flower? Perhaps I'll get to know you in spite of my feelings (I'm not certain as to what my feelings are — but perhaps you know). So why don't you write a poem about me? You beautiful flower.