I sit here, rather parched and dry,
in a red porcelain, or maybe terracotta, pot.
When my thirst is quenched, I can fly
and touch the skies with cloud dots.
I am a beautiful purple hue,
with some white thrown in--
my petals remind people of tie-dye too:
some compare my aesthetic to sin;
for I rather live in humidity and warm,
I would die if my house dropped below eighty.
My petals and stem often transform
moods, regardless if Italian, Chinese, or Kuwaiti!
Yet, my beauty is simple indeed,
I thrive in the night with the help of moths;
my perfume relaxes or can set you free,
as you toss and turn in my silks in your cloths.