A Bouquet

He brought to me a sweet bouquet
that sparkled in the light.
I touched the hand that picked the flowers,
daisies all so white.
When he left I held them close,
afraid that I might cry.
If only I could keep them
and never let them die.
But tears that flow
and flowers that grow
can both be dried you know.

The thought of this brought a smile
and never brought a tear.
My first bouquet would last forever
between pages I revere.

poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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