I dried them,
Every single vase-full
From where you'd show up at my front door
Smiling and hopeful.
Something about men with flowers
Is so tender and vulnerable.
The flowers were a witness
To every love sigh and trauma cry
Were the background in every photograph
As I let my guard down.
Winter became spring and I wanted to dance
Wanted to catch sun on my shoulders
So I gathered the flowers and weaved them
Raised them up
Crowning me with your love.
- Jenny Wren
