Seasons (Flowers for You) S P R I N G We were inseparable, sun on our sleeves, running the alleys where the wild light leans. Each morning I laid fresh flowers by your door, and lived for the moment you smiled, nothing more. Seasons turn like pages I never got to write, I held your weather when I wanted my own sky. I kept bringing blossoms to soften what you broke - now the vase is empty, and I’m learning what I owed. S U M M E R We swore we’d take the world, barefoot and loud, you fought every stranger who questioned you out. Some nights you came home bruised by your own fire, and my flowers stood waiting - small, faithful choirs. Seasons turn like pages I never got to write, I held your weather when I wanted my own sky. I kept bringing blossoms to soften what you broke - now the vase is empty, and I’m learning what I owed. A U T U M N As spouses we wandered from city to town, where doors stayed half-shut and the kindness wore down. You chased “the big break,” quick money, bright proofs - but the roaming took payment, and hardened your youth. My flowers reached you less, left out in the cold, wilting unnoticed on the table - growing old. But you wouldn’t believe we’d come to the end of the road, that our bright little dreams didn’t turn into gold. Seasons turn like pages I never got to write, I held your weather when I wanted my own sky. I kept bringing blossoms to soften what you broke - now the vase is empty, and I’m learning what I owed. W I N T E R In the winter of our lives it got quieter still, big dreams finally tired, and the frost in the sills. You couldn’t be reached - no, not even by prayer, and my words fell like snow that just vanishes there. Now I’m standing at your grave with the years in my hands, all the miles we called "living," like shifting sands. Sometimes I wonder - could it have turned out kind? More steady, more hopeful, more yours and mine. I carried your vision like water in stone, never asking whose life it was turning unknown. Now I lay down my flowers by the weight of your name, and hope you can see them - somewhere past the shame. Seasons turn like pages I never got to write, I held your weather when I wanted my own sky. I kept bringing blossoms to soften what you broke - now the vase is empty and I'm learning what I owed
