Please, just be a flower.
Not a daggered rose.
A sweet buttercup, a gentle Lilac.
Remember how we felt
on those car-ride days and
nights the surf filled our ears
Poker rounds and sandy tiled floors.
The chipped edge of the bone
China, cut your lip. I was careless.
It was your mother’s, and you loved it
though It sat among coffee stained
mugs and crumb-filled napkins
They assumed you didn’t care.
I knew you did. I’m sorry.
It’s getting late, and the sun
is setting on yet another year.
I’m worried we will run out of time.
Try to let the rays sweep over your
wilted petals. Maybe the rain
will revive you, wash over you,
like a river of kindness.
So, you must be a flower,
a white peony or a pink daisy.
Daisies are perfect, this time of year.
Susan Ward Trestrail, 2017