My Flowers. A poem.

Red for love, white for loyalty:
They sit on the kitchen counter in a tall glass.
I have trimmed my flowers back for a second time,
and they may last until Saturday,
when I leave for Birmingham, UK, and uni.

“Gifts” are not my usual love-language–
I appreciate them, but they don’t usually stir my soul.
But as I was tending to them,
my head filled with their light but sweet scent,
the love and loyalty they meant was tangible.
I realised I actually enjoyed this small task
of care,
because it meant that I could stay connected
to the one who give me my flowers.

I could write not only of flowers, but of other gifts.
A watch bought for the third time, even
when I kept losing them.
A journal, with a note on the first page:
“May you feel like you feel when opening a new journal. Love…”
A New-Zealand Prayer Book, and another note,
bought just because I wanted one.

Connection is an odd thing:
is it

only in my head,
or is there something that lingers,
present,
even when the gift-giver is not,
even if (s)he wishes to withdraw the present?

May the gifts of love I receive
open my heart and life,
and tend to make me
more loving and loyal!

Just some thoughts
from the simple joy of tending to a gift–
my flowers.

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