There is a flower called touch-me-not,
which means, of course, touch me,
for it depends upon touch for propagation,
as humans do. The blossom may be
two tones of orange, the darker exquisitely
freckling the lighter, or a clear lovely
yellow, an elegant aperture, inviting entry
by winged emissaries of imagination
actuated by love. The seed pods are made
of coil springs laid straight in the pod’s
shape; ripe, the seeds are restrained in
suspension of tension. Touched, they fly.
