The Belladonas are blooming 

Smearing their pink hues 

Onto all the summer heat left behind

At the monastery I bring them up with mother

She chuckled at what they are called 

And the irony of their place of bloom.

All in glowing saffron,

The saints adorning the wall

And the one who fills his fruit basket

While they walk the grounds with purpose-

With haint blue on the entrance ceiling

And with the lemons and chilies hanging from the door

The monks try to ward away

The naked ladies blooming freely