The Language of the Bloom

You don't speak now in words, or gentle sighs.

You speak in color, where the daylight lies.

My mother is the deep magenta hue

Inside the tulip, where the sun shines through.

I see your quiet worry in the shadows cast

By the tall, proud stalks, memories that last.

The sudden, sharp scent of the lilac bush.

That was your sharp opinion, a gentle hush.

I found a wilting rose, just yesterday,

Its velvet petals fading into grey.

It felt like finding an old, folded note

Where you had written wisdom by your quote:

“Even when you dry up, darling, something lives.”

The life you gave me, all it freely gives.

The soil holds your grief, dark and rich and slow,

And from that darkness, all my feelings grow.

You whisper not from heaven, high above,

But in the silent language of a flower's love.