To the flower.
that had to be incomprehensible pain
to be ripped from your plant
just when you were blooming
hoping for bees
to make seeds, a future.
But he plucked you I know,
doing it in love
of your beauty,
of the day.
He brought it with hearts in his eyes
one sunny morning
wanting nothing but to make me smile.
I talked to him later,
asked that next time he bring a photo,
leaving other flowers where I like them,
still on the plant.
He said he’d plucked you from a patch of your family
like a field of orange,
the world might not miss just you.
Then perhaps you can forgive him,
of your kind there were so many
and of him, that man,
and the love he has for me,
there is only one.