my mother’s bouquet

I tried to dry the roses
out of the florist bouquet
my uncle sent;
pale pink, like lipstick
for little girls
barely blushing

a dozen of those
matching her jacket
interspersed with baby’s breath
like the color was planned
when it wasn’t

his card saying simply sister
to describe a relationship
70 years long
in one word

the roses
never dried well,
that pink fading
to old bruises shading livid
under wilting petal skin

but I still have
that baby’s breath
dried in sprays
of perfect
scentless fragility
tied like a twig broom
upside down
on my wall

we call them grandma’s flowers

she always preferred
baby’s breath
to the blowsy showiness
roses flaunt
anyway

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About Susan L Daniels

I am a firm believer that politics are personal, that faith is expressed through action, and that life is something that must be loved and lived authentically--or why bother with any of it?
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10 Responses to my mother’s bouquet

  1. How you must miss her, how wonderfully sharp your recall is and how you so ably succeed in appealing to and combining all the senses. she sleeps well, Susan, and the sands lie gently on her!

    • Thank you, Noel. The genesis of this poem is particularly interesting (to me, anyway), as my vision happened to brush across this bunch of dried baby’s breath on my wall, shortly before I went to sleep. This poem woke me up in the very early morning, complete. I must have composed it in my sleep 🙂

  2. Some of us keep dried flowers, but what really matters are the memories. Yours are rich, and unique.

  3. Green Speck says:

    Your poem is so enriching in memories … well done !!!

  4. Rhonda says:

    Grandma’s flowers…I love this.

  5. Sweet and lovely memories

    • Thanks, Celestine (in case you are wondering, I always type your name because I love the sound of it!). I do so wish the pink roses had dried to something pretty.

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