Nasturtiums

Nasturtiums are out in my backyard. I wanted them for color, and planted many.
In a matter of a few days they grew big and multiplied.
I like their color palette and their oversized leaves that shelter blooms like Japanese umbrellas,
under which, here and there,
two or three flowers display their silky kimonos in a debauchery of warm tones.
Honey, lemony yellow butterfly wings,
the brightest orange, no doubt a few drops of the Eastern sun bleeding,
Blood orange, sprouting, no doubt from the entrails of the earth,
where the magma is simmering a glowing, sticky stew
waiting to remind us of our impermanence.
All shades of saffron, like the neat conic mounds of spices
artfully displayed in a Morrocan market stall,
glowing like mounds of powdered gems in a dark, narrow, medina cobbled street.
Like the robes of Buddhist monks in a dimly lit temple,
And rust, the peculiar texture of metal turning back into powder,
going back to the earth it was extracted from.
We'll get rusty too, and when we get tired of our futile combat against our nature,
we'll curl up and wrinkle and dry out and be reduced to a powder,
just in time to go back to our mother, beneath our feet,
who, in her unconditionnal, loving wisdom, will blend ud with a savant mixture
of earth, minerals, syrup, water, and fire,
to revive us, pushing us back up as a nastutium flower.