Late Flowers By Christopher Bernard Only now have they started to fade. They had just begun to open the afternoon I bought them right before your birthday: white lilies, red carnations, clematis that clings to the eaves, small pink roses, little daisies, against a deep green backdrop of shadowy ferns and leaves. Over the days that followed they blossomed like a flourish from a garden on your little table in your lovely room bright and warm and gentle, the windows opening to the bay and the northern reach of sunlight gathering the day. They opened like young loving, they opened like the spring, they opened like your smile at the sweetness of all beauty: a simple and artless bouquet. Only now do they begin to fade. Who could have known they opened only for one who would no longer see them, in a room where you, in sleep, the afternoon that followed the day that you were born (or so it seems, to the living), fading long before the flowers, were gone even as they flowered beautiful as the day? For K.
Christopher Bernard’s latest book of poems, The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, has received a stellar review from Kirkus and will be included as a May feature (Best Indie Books of the Month).