NaPoWriMo 2020 Day 11

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Today’s prompt over at NaPoWriMo talked about the language of flowers and linked to a Victorian flower meaning archive. Although it was interesting finding out the meaning that the Victorians ascribed to flowers, I feel more moved to write a poem about what flowers mean to me…

πŸŒ·πŸŒΈπŸ’πŸŒΏπŸŒ±πŸŒΌπŸŒ»πŸŒΎπŸŒΉπŸŒΊπŸƒπŸ€πŸŒ·πŸŒΈπŸ’πŸŒΏπŸŒ±πŸŒΌπŸŒ»πŸŒΎπŸŒΉπŸŒΊπŸƒπŸ€πŸŒ·πŸŒΈπŸ’πŸŒΏπŸŒ±πŸŒΌπŸŒ»πŸŒΎπŸŒΉπŸŒΊ

Flowers

Flowers. I have always loved them,
since before I knew what love was.
I just knew they were beautiful, delightful,
alluring, magical, mysterious,
silent jewels receiving the life
they had opened into.
As a child I spent my days outside
and one of my clearest memories
is of a carpet of clover blossoms
and dandelions in my parents’ yard,
glimmering in the bright sun.
I remember picking wildflowers in college
as I hiked the Appalachian trail
and drying them to decorate my dorm room.
I remember buying myself a gorgeous,
lush, big, bright bouquet of roses, lilies
and other cheerful beauties
the first Valentine’s Day after my children’s father
decided his heart was elsewhere.
And just this week my children collected
many spring blossoms to decorate the house;
we had tiny vases and bigger ones
of wildflowers, maple blossoms, flowering cherry,
and maybe a couple of blooms from the neighbors’ yards.
Today I’m on edge because my kids are arguing.
I’d like to become like a flowerβ€”
Still, silent, letting the light open me
to my fullest expression of beauty,
my only purpose in life…

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