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.
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Bitter sweet. Very nice, if sad.
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A poignant tale, lovely to read, sad to reach the inevitable ending. I love the various ways he chose to present the flowers.
http://gail-baugniet.blogspot.com/
H is for: Horrors of War – Province of Prussia
(Theme: very short stories/varied genres)
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