juanita.

These purple flowers are
nothing extraordinary, arriving
every Spring like clock-work.
Four tiny petals thrown onto
a bone thin stem,
but they remind me of you.
A mini bouquet that you held
firmly in your wrinkled hand,
telling me to think of you when
the purples start to grow.
As if I could ever forget.
They contrast with your green eyes
that mirror mine and the sun
casts a glow on your pale, aging skin.
Red, painted lips smile at me encouragingly,
almost like a photograph.
No, I won’t forget.