Wilted White

I placed a handful of white daisies on your grave.
They withered in the cool air,
whipping their little heads.
You hated flowers.
They made you cry.
We dug little flower graves in the backyard
hoping
they would be reborn

April showers washed away their sins.
Did you wash away your sins before you died,
Katie?
Did you finally tell your parents who I was?

I am crying now.
These poor flowers.
They never got a chance to spread their pollen,
to die in a field of pulsating colors

Did you die in a field of colorful pollen,
Katie?
Did you embrace our love of all things natural?
Did you die with my name
on the petals of your heart?