I do know it is hard to write
a poem of flowers,
of tulips
or of
the
quince.
I do know that they make me think,
all flowers, of you;
and of the
day that
took
you–
of all the flowers we then cut
and soon had gathered,
and that friends
had sent
to
you.
I cannot see this page to keep
writing of bluebells,
or of the
lilac
and
rose.