Every Flower

Who dares to press a flower to one meaning?
When one is in love, every flower is full of passion.
When love dies, each flower listens to your grief.

They pick up your thoughts  by some telepathy,
soak up meaning through the air,
are watered by your grief or joy.

Hope, regrets, solitude?
Flowers do not signify.
Flowers only serve as balm.

Any flower head in a baby’s fist, held out to her mother.
Hibiscus petals strewn across a reunion table,
rose petals on a marriage bed.

When I die, do not look for the me in the roses
blanketing my grave or the bougainvillea
fallen to the ground in which I lie.

Look for me in the blue thunbergia,
hearty and profuse and growing ever upward,
insisting on being seen. Me, here! Me.

This week, Esther’s  Writing Prompt is ROSE