Flowers.

They came in hands both warm and cold,
Wrapped in ribbon, love, or silence untold.
Blossoms gifted in moments brief,
Each a symbol, joy or grief.

I’ve watched them bloom on brighter days,
Petals catching sun in golden haze.
And I’ve seen them bow, with colors run,
Their beauty fading, never gone.

Some I pressed in books to keep,
Others scattered where I weep.
One I dried, a single leaf
To scent the air, a balm for grief.

They whispered things we meant to say,
Or couldn’t, or said too late anyway.
But even wilted, even torn,
Their meaning lingered, softly worn.

And so, I gather memory’s bloom,
In light, in shadow, in full and gloom.
I let the fragrance shape my heart,
Forgive the end, recall the start.

For like all flowers, people go
Seasons change, and rivers flow.
Yet every petal, every part,
Still presses beauty in my heart.

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