To Albert Nalbandian

Morning begins
a bad day for flowers
the sun beats out
brilliant blue flames
lifted by warm winds
across a white sky
onto sidewalks.
Shirtsleeves and shark skinned suits
fragrant whispers of black nylons
cascade Union Square
in a melodic human symphony.
A parade of foreheads
prowl the veins
of Powell and Geary
with abstract, cold eyes
to where the City
is pulled out to sea
by the stilled wings of gulls.

Clusters of red-eyed wildflowers
hum like bees from their golden centers
platonic roses refuse to wilt
craning green necks for recognition
and cellophane
Calla lilies dream of unfurling
tight wide mouths
into alphabets of sound
where purple windowed tulips
trumpet with laughter
drawing shadows
along your lifeline
where everybody rotates towards
with his open palm of sunlight
extended at the edge of a dark world
like a hummingbird
embracing the face
of a blossom
with artistry and tender eyes.