I wish that I could tell you why Rhododendrons mean a warning, but the why is something that I do not know. Stories about they whys of flowers, unfortunately, they are not very consistent. I am much more consistent than they are, and I change every few moments.

He is courteous, The flowers say to me, crowding in the edges of the glass, watching you outward through it. The hothouse in which they live is not just in my mind; it is the floor-to-ceiling of me. I am often speaking through this glass, you should know it when I am hard to hear, to understand. It is easy for silences to fall on the other side of it; words drop and dry up when faced with the mottled green, streaked with aggressive dots, they turn into silences and curl up, whimpering softly on the loamy ground beneath. You would think that because this is spring, that they would burrow into the earth and plant themselves there beneath my windows, but I do not want that either. Who wants to be hemmed in by a forest of silences? the ones we have are quite enough, are they not? And of such a kind that I cannot tell if they are empty or full. I have no skill at silences, save keeping them. I am not a connoisseur; I cannot identify them by breed. Perhaps you can? Or perhaps you are not concerned with the nature of silences, or perhaps you are like me, and simply cannot tell either. I would wonder, but that is the sort of question swallowed by silence too. And perhaps I am hearing things, where nothing is. That is the danger, you know. You begin to select for silence, you filter silences by their perceived flavours. This one is lemons, that one is icewine, marigolds, poppies. The flowers pressing against the inside of my head, the rhododendrons and ranunculi pressing fat against the walls of my heart. I do not know what ranunculus means, in the languages of flowers, but they tell me it is about being charming, having a dazzling charm. They are also poisonous, you know. But it is not as if I have not lived on a diet of poison till now.

This is not your fault. You have not put buttercups or oleander in my meals. You are not that one.

I have no skill at silences, but I keep them, though I do not want them. They know this, and they squirm in my keeping, disgruntled. They worry at me, awkward and uncomfortable, trying to make me break them in a fit of fury over my knee and scatter everything they contain all kinds of everywhere. Even if what is in them is-- nothing. Even if they are empty. It is not like we are not all about smashing empties over and over, everywhere.

<<agé chose>>

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