Laughing Flowers

The geranium pot wants the kisses of light: on its body, unveiled. Take the pot from behind the glass barrier from behind the veil of the curtain. Put the pot on the veranda, in the arms of light. Look here: my pink buds dried up before they opened my green leaves, without the dance of light, turned yellow. My small flowerpot – to the marrow of its slender skeleton – is rotting, far from the light, in exile: behind the veil of the curtain ...