Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors,
there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke”

•••

If they were cars, they’d be pulled over for doing
60 in a 25 mph zone, these arrest-me-red flowers
ablaze with show-offy cheeriness. They pop up
with look-at-me-look-at-me insouciance, like
a pretty girl in a fuchsia frock at the dance,

and you want to hate their cheekiness,
their unearned confidence, but really.
How can you ignore their reckless blooming?
How can you not stop, bend and reach
out a hand, tell them how gorgeous they are,

flash your own lovely smile back at them?