The wolf-girl spoke in the language of flowers, lilacs on her tongue;
wreathing laurels and snapdragons upon her lips to whisper tales:
murmuring orchids as she told the story of her life, of the happiness she'd grown,
freesia whispers, and smiles as she exhales,
and holds the bouquets of alstroemeria she'd created all on her own.
Laughs of peonies and daisies spoke of hope, light in her crystal eyes;
sunflower petals danced upon her lips and murmured of sunshine:
told of beauty and lies and borealis-filled skies,
living flower-high on the mountainside alpine.
Surrounded by petals arise in the atmosphere,
a hundred miles of daisies to fall, yet nothing to fear.
The doe-girl spoke in the language of flowers, thorns on her tongue;
mouth full of hyacinths and wisteria, poison to the touch and deadly within:
weeping tales of the sadness from choking hearts she'd harvested,
eyes of loneliness and venomous jessamine,
all the broken time and effort and blood she had invested.
Datura petals choked her throat and closed her lungs, each breath lying;
the lilies tangled in her hair wept of moonlight:
belladonna grieving and azalea crying,
of the darkness which had become her home in the night.
Airways closing, overcome by her own hayfever,
too high to breathe up in the ether.
Artemis spoke in the language of flowers, stars and morning dew on her tongue;
shouting myths of camellia courage and fearsome daisy:
strapping herself up in lavender and ivory;
one half delphinium beauty and the other nightshade fury
to create wolf and doe in perfect harmony.
Her hands cupped frangipanis of starlight and carnation noon;
the tears from her eyes became flowers where they fell:
sprouting mountains that could reach the moon,
she was a forest of her own making, blooming aster and bloodroot spell.
For once with the flowers, never alone,
and finally the foxgloves took her home.
.