and a hint of baby's breath
in a vase upon my mantle
remind me I'm alone, myself.
I've conjured up that dozen
into tiny bits of love
and imagine every blossom
was sent by one I love.
Three are from my husband
for our anniversary;
first year I got no flowers
to show his love for me.
Three more from my husband
with a touch of sympathy
to say he's oh, so sorry
that he couldn't talk to me.
Three are from my daughter
to show that she can feel
and wants to give, not only take;
the gift of giving's real.
The last three are from both of them
to say, "Get wel soon, Mom.
We know you've not been feeling well
or feeling safe and calm."
My dozen fresh carnations
to me, alone, from me,
in my sweet imagination
say, "You mean the world to me."
They say, "We love you and we care;
we send them with out love."
The only one who'll ever know
blooms lie is God above.
~June 9, 2004
