Old Thorns

Every year on the first Saturday in May,

We would roll around the garden

Picking the freshest flowers

From the archway.

*

We would bring them inside to sit in a vase,

And put them atop the table

Where we laid our palms upward

Ready to say grace.

*

The salty air had combined with lilac and rose,

And we looked at each other

Through the petals

Hoping that no one knows.

*

The next year on the first Saturday in May,

I didn’t want to pick any flowers

I simply wanted to

Sit at the window watching the bay.

*

My wanting wasn’t so simple,

I didn’t want to pick any flowers

Because later across the table

I would see no dimples.

*

I didn’t want to pick any flowers

Because the next day,

They would die anyway

And so would all its power.

*

Last year on the first Saturday in May,

I received a letter from

Your mother saying

She hopes everything is okay.

*

I picked flowers that year

Because you still liked them

Even if it meant the gardens

Would soon be all clear.

*

Today is the first Saturday in May,

And I have just started

To pick the lilacs and roses

And make another bouquet.

*

I have learned to love something

When it is too beautiful not to

Even when it may be gone too soon

Even when the mark will very well sting.

*

Because I learned this,

I went to the florist each week

And found something that

I could have missed.

*

Someone standing beside me,

Trimming the thorns from the roses

Unknowingly surprised when

They got on one knee.

*

So next year, on the first Saturday of May,

I will stand under a new archway

Putting all the glorious flowers

On display.