Violet Crowley sat upon the cast iron loveseat
in the backyard arbor and bloomed
among the startling blue starburst of clematis
and the lipstick smears of bougainvillea,
prominent like crepe-paper swatches
or Joan Crawford's lips
in Technicolor.
Her dress, a willowy shift
of Egyptian cotton, also bloomed,
in chaotic confusion,
fluffy peony prints and meandering
lines suggesting, no, underscoring vines.
A sprig of bridal’s wreath
lay clutched in her hands
like a limp scepter.
There she sat as she awaited the arrival
of her suitor, Marvin Singleton,
who approached her gingerly,
wondering whether he should
pluck her or simply
watch her grow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem