The wedding bouquet,
gardenias and baby’s breath,
swirl in the eddy
as though looking for
an escape.
Up river,
a boutonniere of
coral rosebuds
catches the rapids
and is pummeled forward.
Colliding with the
vortex, it too
merges with the whiligig,
a churning water-garden.
Back upriver,
a man in a tuxedo drinks whisky straight;
a woman takes shears to her gown.
Love is liquid.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dear God: love IS liquid. ((laughing)) I love this flowered piece. And the last stanza is pure poetry. Thanks, Bill. Sandra