No feather from Woeperdal

No feather from Woeperdal,
no fox’s hair that falls somewhere,
no African marigolds in the spring sun
urge me to be as much in love
as you can.

I’ll rather write to you about flowers
and the curves of your body,
than putting African marigolds in a posy
and mocking other poets.

White, yellow, crimson and any flower’s
colour and smell let me be wordless
and petals leave on leave is nothing
to you coming to my garden
and matchless you are there.