Solveig Werner

Every day he gave me a flower. 
Sometimes it was a bought arrangement.
Sometimes it was a wild flower.
Sometimes it was a picked flower.
Sometimes he gave me a dried poppy .
Neatly tukked into the pages of his favourite book.
Sometimes it was free.
Sometimes it was store-bought.
At times it was cheekishly taken from a public garden.
Or from behind the vile neighbours fence.
Sometimes it was drawn on paper.
Sometimes they were bound into a crown. .
Everyday he gave me a flower. 
He gave them with love.
He gave them with passion. 
Sometimes it was a dandilion. 
Sometimes it was origami. 
Sometimes it was a poem, 
Or a book about a flower. 
He gave me flower earrings. 
A flower neclace. 
He served me flowers  floating in my tea.
He gave me flowers in the form of a bread. 
Sometimes he cooked with edible flowers. 
He gave me flowers every day. 
He spread out flowers on our bed. 

And now, it is I who is bringing him flowers. 
Every day. 
I come to his grave 
And bring a flower, or two .
Sometimes more. 

And one day soon, I will be here too. 
His last flowers grow here now.