Oenothera biennis

The Evening Primrose blooms only at night. 
She unfolds dusky yellow petals
in an embrace and, 
if you ask, 

She will tell you the moon
has been lonely; busy peeling
her craters open for a taste
of warmth from the sun. 
Her moans have become melancholic--

"How solitary my existence, 
with only the babbling brook 
​and hooting owl 
for company. Oh!
What a wretched existence is this!"

She turns her face from that
which adores her. She is
drowning in self-pity, 
teeter-tottering about her
axis as if she is the only
body in this universe.