You always wanted to be a flower;
Billowing unsteadily with grace.
You looked at me with eyes of power
And grasped my confused face.
For a moment you almost looked inspired,
And then you turned me to my reflection and sighed.
“That right there...is the girl of fire.”
“Oh shut up." I said,
"You’re not sober.”
No, you were drunk like an Irish clover.
Your red hands turned me over
And the ground was cold like your shell.
Your freckles held me in a spell
Of rhymes without any reasons.
Back and forth like Washington’s seasons...
When the snow had finally fell.
That was my first time seeing snow.
Remember when it felt so serendipitous,
We thought it was all in our heads?
Until it snowed so hard, it made beds
And we made muddy snow angels.
You were one of them.
And I compared yours to mine.
For some reason yours was perfect.
And mine was less;
More of a mud mess.
Maybe It’s because I was nervous.
I can still feel you red hair and eyelashes
surrounding blue pools.
Blue pools turning brown through the tools
You used to escape.
What did you mean?
And now I’ll never really know
What to take from all your notes
“What I would give to be a flower...
Beautiful and worthy.”
My eyes read, with wishes spilt.
“From the day I bloom,
To the day I wilt...”
This poem represents all of the things someone doesn't psychically say. The blank spaces can be filled in by the readers to hold a stronger message that is implied but not said, or used to add emphasis to the spaces between thoughts. This also symbolizes the thought process of confusion through grief and how one finds that the smallest things can now hold the deepest meanings after a loss.
This poem is dedicated to the memories of Grant and was inspired by a drafted poem that was among many he had written but scribbled out in a notebook of his. This notebook was found after he passed away and the following was among the salvaged pieces of poetry he had begun but discontinued:
"What I would give to be a flower...
Beautiful and worthy.
From the day I bloom,
To the day I wilt..."