but not until the mourning

There will be flowers next to this letter,

not because nobody will be at my funeral,

but because i am going to miss me too.

They are assorted by genre,

by color,

by scent,

by anything other than beauty.

The most tattered seem to be less wanted yet

so fertile

with pollen.

I will perish to watch you grow;

I'll grow from a light green bud of affection,

of meaning--

to bright pale yellow petals

full of love and patience;

I will then wither to gold trimmed shades of rust.

I'll be everything you wanted,

so don't tell me you will mourn.

Drop your worries,

don't you grieve.

Just remember my name,

You are after all--

who gave it to me.