Flowers
While trying hard to win her heart,
he often sent her flowers.
Enchanted by their fragrant spell,
she’d muse away the hours.
Carnations, daisies, tulips too,
bluebonnets, and foxglove:
bright blooms for all occasions,
all symbols of his love.
They made their vows, began their dream:
first, several years of school.
Good training is expensive.
Thrift was her rigid rule.
His heart was light; he always found
each dark cloud’s silver lining,
while she was staid and sensible,
and sometimes prone to whining.
Their purse was tight; she made quite sure
they counted every dime.
All non-essential purchases
would have to bide their time
and wait until their needs were met
and all their debt repaid.
Till then all frills and luxuries
would have to be delayed.
So she could full economize,
she made him take a vow:
impulsive spontaneity
no longer was allowed.
She made him pledge he’d curb his whim.
His fancies superseded,
their money she would wisely spend
on things they really needed.
So you can gather her surprise,
her anger, and dismay,
when one day on her shelf she spied
twelve roses on display.
“Thank you; they’re lovely,” she agreed,
“but in a week they’re gone.
I’ve other things more practical
to spend our money on.”
His grin became a feeble smile.
“I see now I was wrong.
I thought perhaps you might be pleased,
because it’s been so long
since last reflected in your eyes
I saw a splash of red
on thorn-clad stems of glossy green.
I see them now,” he said.
“When next I feel the need to give
you flowers, I’ll first come
and ask you if there’s cash to spare.
I’ll let you be the one
to judge. I’m too impetuous.
The spur requires the curb.
I’m fortunate to have a wife
so fiscally superb.”
He gave her then a gentle hug
and with a kiss sealed tight
his acquiescence to her will
by feigning she was right.
But had she searched his clouded eyes,
she might have spied the tear
and something missing, something lost,
his wit could not conceal.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The years have passed. His talent and
her discipline made sure
they’ll spend their life in luxury,
their fortune will endure
beyond the autumn of their years.
Now holidays give reason
for him to purchase for his wife
a gift to greet each season.
His calendar he keeps with care;
he’s never missed his cue.
The gifts that she expects from him
he buys and wraps them too:
music, clothing, bracelets, books,
lockets, jewels, and rings,
brass candlesticks, the finest art, and
Spanish figurines.
Surrounded by these luxuries,
she mulls away the hours,
but sometimes sadly wonders why
he never gives her flowers.
he often sent her flowers.
Enchanted by their fragrant spell,
she’d muse away the hours.
Carnations, daisies, tulips too,
bluebonnets, and foxglove:
bright blooms for all occasions,
all symbols of his love.
They made their vows, began their dream:
first, several years of school.
Good training is expensive.
Thrift was her rigid rule.
His heart was light; he always found
each dark cloud’s silver lining,
while she was staid and sensible,
and sometimes prone to whining.
Their purse was tight; she made quite sure
they counted every dime.
All non-essential purchases
would have to bide their time
and wait until their needs were met
and all their debt repaid.
Till then all frills and luxuries
would have to be delayed.
So she could full economize,
she made him take a vow:
impulsive spontaneity
no longer was allowed.
She made him pledge he’d curb his whim.
His fancies superseded,
their money she would wisely spend
on things they really needed.
So you can gather her surprise,
her anger, and dismay,
when one day on her shelf she spied
twelve roses on display.
“Thank you; they’re lovely,” she agreed,
“but in a week they’re gone.
I’ve other things more practical
to spend our money on.”
His grin became a feeble smile.
“I see now I was wrong.
I thought perhaps you might be pleased,
because it’s been so long
since last reflected in your eyes
I saw a splash of red
on thorn-clad stems of glossy green.
I see them now,” he said.
“When next I feel the need to give
you flowers, I’ll first come
and ask you if there’s cash to spare.
I’ll let you be the one
to judge. I’m too impetuous.
The spur requires the curb.
I’m fortunate to have a wife
so fiscally superb.”
He gave her then a gentle hug
and with a kiss sealed tight
his acquiescence to her will
by feigning she was right.
But had she searched his clouded eyes,
she might have spied the tear
and something missing, something lost,
his wit could not conceal.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The years have passed. His talent and
her discipline made sure
they’ll spend their life in luxury,
their fortune will endure
beyond the autumn of their years.
Now holidays give reason
for him to purchase for his wife
a gift to greet each season.
His calendar he keeps with care;
he’s never missed his cue.
The gifts that she expects from him
he buys and wraps them too:
music, clothing, bracelets, books,
lockets, jewels, and rings,
brass candlesticks, the finest art, and
Spanish figurines.
Surrounded by these luxuries,
she mulls away the hours,
but sometimes sadly wonders why
he never gives her flowers.
Poet‘s comments about “Flowers”
Many of my poems narrate a story, and most of those stories end well, or at least they leave the reader satisfied with the outcome. "Flowers" is one of the rare exceptions, and it is so by design. Sometimes a sad tale can teach us lessons that a happy one cannot.
