Just Suppose
stones could flower,
I could be a radiant pink rose,
and you, a grand hybrid,
heralding your luminous gray.

"Preposterous!" you say,
with eyes averted,
"things cannot be
what they do not seem."

I let you dance off,
turning back then away,
then I see you smile,
flushing aromatically.
I wonder if ideas
are organs of perception.
I can hear you say,
"isn't that another illusion?"