Six Bouquets

I've been working this one, on and off since October.
Let's hope with time and rewriting, and composting, something worthwhile may come.


Six Bouquets

A remembrance of a picnic day,
  Springs timeless scent of flowers,
Wild daisies and monkshood, you stood,
  in a dirty old milk bottle,
Which, with chafed hands you braided
  Into our new love’s wattle.

‘It’s just a mat of dried old flowers.’
‘That was your first bouquet, when you ever met me."

Cream pastel roses, held by hand,
  your matching boutonniere,
they complement my spotless dress,
  and accents in my hair,
which my chaste hands forsook, once blessed,
  and tossed to sisters fair.

‘They’ve turned all brown.’
'That was my bridal bouquet, beautiful, I held it on our wedding day.’

Twelve scarlet reaching tulips whom
  you beg me bend and kiss,
each petal pursed in a cupids bow
  a token of our bliss,
And future, these, and our years past,
  of which we reminisce.

‘They’ve been pressed in this book for ages.’
‘They’re still my sweet Valentine!’

All baby blue and tightly rolled,
  it’s plain that flowers they are not,
five bibs, three cloths, a blanket, and
  a onesie, in a pot,
ten woolen faux fleurs given for
  the breath our baby’s got.

‘He wore those out before he was two, or else we gave away.’
‘They were a lovely present, a blessing when our son was born.’

You woke up Sunday morning, and
  crept out, like all you men,
you picked and bought them, and that card,
  bringing our son along, and then
you made him give me them.
  Now listen boys, I know!

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And he grew up and moved out years ago.’
‘But I do miss my mothers’ day bouquets.’

 A double ended lily spray,
  fern trimmings laid with lace,
by neither flute nor vase were bound,
  but gleamed by heavens grace,
though they were lain upon the ground,
  when you laid me to rest.

‘Well, now they’re cemetery trash.’
‘But you did, you laid them on my grave.’