I bet your parents made love in a bed
of bright marigolds & cosmos;
that would explain your
innate stubbornness,
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like when you sprouted in May,
too eager to grant your mother
the sweet poison of a lily
of the valley,
which is motherhood.
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Although it's not as beautiful
as the red tulip she raised,
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I hope she likes the hydrangeas I gave.
I've been wanting to gift more.
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That reminds me!
I've been meaning to thank Iris, too.
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Don't worry,
I meant
with yellow roses,
which I would never ever give you
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...
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I forbid you from ever giving me yellow roses too.
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While their brilliant red
could never compare
to the adorable pink
blooming on you,
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don't you think
the carnations we planted
have beautifully bloomed?
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I'm determined to grow peonies with you, too.
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I've already decided
that when I lie in my deathbed,
nobody shall give me white lilies.
Instead, they'll give me poppies,
for the wound you left
when you left me:
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Its medicine would grant me
peace in death,
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just like the peace
your lavender gives me.
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