The Flower (n.) is a jumble of thighs in the sun's harem; the most oriental thing imaginable.
The Flower (n.) is absent any weekday-self, dressed as it always is in Sunday clothes.
The Flower (n.) is, in each instance, a Mona Lisa, looking back at us whenever we look at it.
The Flower (n.) is, when humored by the wind, wont to toss its head, bowing on its stem like a woman ready to give herself by refusing.
The Flower (n.) is a being which, startled by the wind, is like a woman who submits to being kissed and then a moment later offers her lips willingly.
The Flower (n.) is a multicolored chamber hanging in space.
The Flower (n.) is all woman: mouth, breast, and sex—a voluptuous three-in-one.
The Flower (n.) is both both wise and innocent, with a veteran mouth but childlike eyes.
The Flower (n.) is halfway between solid and liquid, icy colors and capsules of fluid form.
A Flower (n.) is most naked amid its leaves, just like Adam and Eve never looked more naked than when dressed in Fig leaves. Without leaves, the flower looks rather asexual.
The Flower's (n.) entire aristocracy lies in its gestures of color and restraint of form. The loveliness of a dress comes from the murmur of its color tones against the hush of its form. The cut of a dress articulates the language of color.