garden party

If I were as red as the red-flame hibiscus, I would know something about freedom. Nothing could be that red and restrain itself.

I would arrive at stately garden parties wearing only my crimson petals, and I would need no introduction when I entered a room full of local flora. The hollyhocks, in their pale, ruffled blossoms, would rumor in pastel whispers. “Really,” they’d say, “we’re very distant relatives.” The old roses would blush with recognition—they were wild too, once, and red. But now they glance around, heads lowered, their hips just not what they used to be, they look so old-fashioned. The daffodils wouldn’t take any notice; they’re too narcissistic. But the bachelor buttons would. And as I promenade, petal-perfect, among the perennial favorites, the white-eyed violets would shrink.

If I were as red as the red-flame hibiscus, I would know nothing of self-doubt, or shame. You just can’t be that red and worry about what the lilies are saying.

I would mingle with the magnolias without the slightest hint of style envy. I would ask sweet William to dance, even though he’s much shorter than me, and I’d show him how we tango, stems entwined, under the tropical sun. The bearded iris would be jealous, but I’d save some twining for him. Then the boxwood would hedge in. And when I took them in my heart-shaped foliage, they’d beam, proud as poppies.

If I were as red as a red-flame hibiscus, I would be beautiful. There’s just no denying it if you stroll around in the world the color of sangria and summer kisses.

I’d lilt and saunter as if I were queen-of-the-meadow. I would step out in full bloom, and the johnny-jump-ups would not forget me.

If I were as red as the red-flame hibiscus, I would never wrap my fear around me and close up tight, like a tulip in the night.