White Hibiscus (revised poetry)

They line the path to my Mothers door, fallen corpses
petals glistening white in the sun, now turn to beige
spilled tea on the sunbaked sidewalk
Turning, twisting,they spiral in on themselves
protecting  glorious red centers...pollen wombs.

Curling edges like lace, gently folding inward,
a thousand tiny wrinkles
Skin of Grandmothers, frail petal skin arms,
lonely prsoners of softly decaying bodies
Red in the center, reminder of youth's passion
wombs holding memories of babies, never again to open.
Crushed berry wine stains on shriveled arms.

I collect them and gingerly preserve each one,
more fall each day, each hour, my house overflows.
A cemetary of Deathly elegance.
I wrap them in silk and tissue and place them in
polished wood boxes.
Sublime tombs for Hibiscus ... flower coffins.

 I wrap and unwrap them again and again, marveling
at their exquisite sad erosion.
My forlorn collection of melancholic grace.

I think of my Grandmother, my Mother, my self.