There must be a million different types:

Zinnias, Orchids, Lilacs, Tulips, Daffodils,

And the list goes on.

They all have a purpose.

Color clarifies their personality.

Imagine that. 

I don’t know what I’m looking at.

Sometimes I have a blank stare: tabula rasa.

Of course, you have your Carnations;

Pink is perfect.

It means I’ll never forget you.

And then there’s the orange Lily

Standing up arrantly for hatred.

That’s all fine and well until you get the Rose;

How many poems and songs this plant inspired;

Even a 5-year-old will tell you red means I love you.

But for those who mourn the dead resides dark crimson.

You cannot unsee that Rose on the face of a standard casket. 

I cannot fathom how long it’s been. 

I cannot plumb the depths.

It seems like decades since I saw Ronny alive.

We were like brothers together.

He wasn’t much on you Jesus, but he sure could make you laugh.

Ronny was special.

He was really just a big kid when it happened to him.

I heard it was an overdose: diesel.

I was long gone by then.

I know I was not there for him.

I wept in a corner.


So be it.


I wonder what type of flower Is for me?

Maybe it’s the white Azalea for its fragile passion;

Or maybe just because it’s fragile.


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