It starts with voodoo lily

I want to write about flowers. But whenever I sit down to start, all that surfaces is the frantic chant in my mind of "voodoo lily, voodoo lily." This is the assigned name of a tropical plant that can heat up to 15 C above air temperature. It attracts beetles by pumping out an aroma of fresh faeces. When it turns on the heat, it releases a sweet smell, keeping the bugs enthralled. They scurry and screw in the depths of the fragile chamber, turned on long enough for the voodoo to smear them with pollen. The spell is cast! Watch yourselves!
But what of witchweed? Creeping underground, sucking the life out of the cowpeas and the barley. When she finally emerges she is silk red, popping out of the earth with pure, succulent satisfaction.
Widow's tear - a blue drop that will never fall, no matter how long my tongue waits beneath it. And yet I would wait, gladly, humbly - my mind imagining the subtle flavour of the sun in a liquid bead of sky.
And what of bees? Bee purple, that stew of ultra violet and orange plus red, just one of so many colours I will never see because my human eyes will not allow me.
What of the sunflower and its sensitivity to vibration? I see myself screaming or singing into its studded pancake face, willing it to spontaneously germinate. I am sergeant major of desperate curiosity. Please, please - do it now!
And what of the cuckooflowers: Snakebroom, lady's slipper, open arse. Who would pollinate an open arse?
What of the blind dedication of the yucca moth? They only live because of each other. Co-evolve with me and be my love.
And then I think - be as rare as blue for me. Hide the mysteries of your scent for as long as possible so I can breathe you in, clouds of awe permeating my palate, swirling at the back of my throat.(Swallow)
What if I am cereus cactus? This thought makes me grateful that you are so patient, because this could be like unwrapping stars, searching for the chocolate kiss.