Your flowers fell in bright yellow garlands, as at the return of war heroes to Imperial Rome. At first the trumpets sound, but, quickly tiring of their boastfulness, I silence them and return to my childhood bedroom, shared with my little sister, where Father read us bed-time stories of Goldilocks and Rapunzel. I see you in the tumbling blond locks of his stories, portrayed with relish, despite his balding head.
Your scent is pleasant, reserved and clean, like a woman in a tailored dress made irresistible by its restraint. Your flowers say “you can have it all” and your scent says “by being sparing.” The memory of you pours like a waterfall over the dust and whispers that secret to us, as the earth burns with greed.
I cut back your dead flowers in hopes that new shoots will come, and they do, but frustrate my hunger for yellow garlands with only greenness and leaves. There will be no more this year, because you want me to know that there is such a thing as enough.