You would grow a garden in your belly if you could so that your insides are blossoms, fat with pollen and thick seeds, strong roots, and liquid sunshine.  It seems terrible to confess that you know you could be like those flowers if you ate enough of them.  But it is true--they would infuse their spirit into your skin and, in return, you would give them a home.  Just a tablespoon a day is all it would take, you think, as you gaze out at your flower garden, that alchemical blend of growing things and medicinal petals. 

So you collect your marigolds and nasturtiums, your puffs of dandelion and your fat tulip bulbs, your sharp lavender and blowsy rose petals, and you begin the task of making your meal. You could grind them up with your mortar and pestle until each bloom dissolves into a thick paste, a murky drink not unlike your compost to rest in your stomach.  But where is the fun in that?  How can you delight in the feel of seeds down your throat or a soft petal kissing your tongue?

So you mix up your flowers--seeds, petals, stems, roots--into an otherworldly salad.  The tulip bulb is your base, thick and earthy, to welcome your eternal spring and chase away the darkness.  Then you stir in yellow marigold and passionate hope, and add peppery nasturtiums, streaked with orange and red, to make you feel brave; next is dandelion (puffs, roots, leaves picked from a crack in your garden path) to echo your tulip base of infinite possibility.  And a few rose petals to dust the top, a delicate perfume to soften the aspirations of the other flowers--it is enough to enjoy the beauty of this moment.  Your salad isn't complete until you sprinkle blue lavender buds across your feast, adding the final touch of tranquil healing.

You devour this salad, one bite at a time, crunching down on meatiness of the tulips, the melt-in-your-mouth silkiness of the rose, until there is nothing left on your plate but a marigold blossom, somehow still intact.  You pick this flower up with your fingers and bring it to your mouth.  You feel the feathery petals across your tongue, the way it falls apart under the pressure of your teeth, the weight of sunshine in your belly when you swallow it.  This is your garden, each piece of your summer harvest preserved inside you so that you are now part flower, part hope.