The Mother with the flowers

Flowers too have a tongue,
They also have joy and strife.
They are the expression first
Of the psychic flame in life.
Each plane owns a colour.
She boons with names to those
That unveil to Her their skies
Rich in oneness of the source.
But those that are still and mute
Nameless, infinitesimal.
Now a thousand flowers
Cherish Her Dawn-ward call.