The Memory of Joy

The flowers died weeks ago,
cut from their vines
and carefully arranged,
they were a beautiful celebration,

fragrant and full of color, lively
in pinks and purples,
soft and vibrant, a centerpiece

that drew your eye
and made visitors smile
and the love that sat

on the center of your table.
But time is the enemy of beauty,
at least for flowers,

and slowly, the pink turned brown.
Their proud heads bowed,
and the leaves fell

from their once green stalks.
No amount of water or prayer
could bring them back to life.

Perhaps saner men would have let them go,
plucked them from the vase
one by one as they died,

or tossed the whole mess out
when they reached that place
where there was more brown than color.

But I have never been sane,
at least not when it comes to love,
for I insist on seeing beauty

in the brown petals. I breath deeply
the fragrance that lingers
long after the color has fled.

Even in death, the memory of joy
wafts in the air and deserves
to be savored, drawn close

and cherished.

About this poem. 

These are a few of the flowers that some people at work gave the woman I love a few weeks ago. When she had to run to NJ, she left the flowers with me to enjoy the last few days of their color.

Weeks later, they were still in my house, still in the vase they came in, brown and drooping, but still full of the essence of lavender and rose – the fragrance. Today, I finally let them go, but pulled a few out to photograph, just to remember.

Tom

PS – This is my 1,100th blog post. Amazing.