Floral Invasion

If my eyes could perceive
What you say can be seen,
The blaze of
A South Texas Spring's floral display
Would splash my erstwhile color insensitive eyes
Back into their sockets,
Leaving me useless to
Go on with my visual gluttony.

Should we quibble over the
Cobolt, ivory and blood of the
Lupine's flowerlet
And call the hues living there more intense
Than could be duplicated
By those pigments hewed from rock
And brushed onto canvas?

I'll admit the vermillions and lavenders
Of phlox
Seem muddy to my process as they slide by
At dusk.
For my cones and rods
Serve me better in fullest light.
Still my trap-door grasp of the contrast
In saturation
Render me an easy classification between the
Stark white and egg yolk of the two
Prickley poppy kin fluttering together.

My eyes have function ehough
To drink completely
Of the claret gush of wine cups.
Although the greyed verdance of the foliage
Of pinks, standing ready to
Serve as aboriginal painter's brushes,
Blend as whizzling in mararthonic stretches,
The poke of mustard yellow
Lighting them in comparison.

The deep textile pigments
Of the Indian blankets
Lay their comforting wheels of fire
With deep set herbage sharing a bed with
Evening primroses
Of white, yellow and pink
Offering their sulphorous lick
In the middle.