No flowers with falling petals
I’m thinking about the time
when I can’t have my say anymore.
The time when all that’s needed to be said
should have long been said, and long been done.
Those scraps of paper you so often see me
leave about the house must all be thrown away;
things to do, they duly state, of late,….
But when the time is here, those silly things
won’t matter anyway.
I want to talk about it now, about the tidying.
I’ve never been a one who likes things lying about;
there is a place for everything….
I often heard my mother shout.
My clothes, heaped in the corner of my teenage room
used to drive her crazy; she’d scoop them,
in frustrated arms, and hurl them in the wardrobe.
I think about her now, how we are so alike.
For, if a speck of dust is lingering,
I’ll flick it off or, randomly, I’ll brush it with my arm.
It makes me calm to think that all has its own place.
And so, let’s talk about the time,
when I no longer stand before your face,
and there is no more need for arguing.
About the ifs and buts and whens and wheres;
When I am no longer there, to tell you
do not bring me flowers to my grave.
Petals will fall everywhere and I will not be here
to pick them up.
Jane Morris has been writing poetry since a very young age and is inspired by the surrounding nature and ocean views here in Cornwall. She enjoys observing nature, pottering in the garden and is never without her camera. More of her poetry can be found at The HyperTexts: http://www.thehypertexts.com/main.htm
atriumpoetry.com 