RED SANTAN

by: d.l.c. nardo 

Have you ever tasted the sweet nectar of a Red Santan? Huddled around the bush, 

we would pick the tiny red flowers, 

pulling the little straw inside the stem, 

the nectar a small drop, 

enough for a hummingbird 

and we would lick it for the discovery of sweetness, as if the smallest things were worth all the time in our worlds as if knowing this about the flower was enough, 

as if tasting it matters more than their identification or purpose. 

Then afterwards, 

we would take the red flowers 

connect them, 

plugging it into the next flower by stem. 

We make bracelets, necklaces, rings and crowns, 

our jewelry exhibiting our delightful terrene. 

When we pass the flowers, 

it’s like a little whisper, 

a nectarious inside joke, 

delectable and exquisite in its secrecy. 

The luscious secret is a reminder 

that we belong in this world, 

the worlds we make and the ones we remake.

Everywhere we turn, there are delicacies in abundance.