He Still Brings Me Flowers

I was in a meeting at church the other day when my dear husband's face appeared at the door - his finger, motioning me into the hallway. He had brought me flowers. He still does this periodically - and it always reminds me of the first time, documented here in this poem from 16 years ago (non-poetry lovers, give this one a shot):

The Last Petal

One late night, I sat awake in the wistfulness of youth,
seeking out the falsities in what we call the truth.

My eyes, aflame, beheld a vase of daisies white and gold,
given by a heart so tender to my heart both warm and cold.

As I sat, I stopped to ponder softly-spoken, flowery words;
doubting truth in all the pretty echoes I had heard.

So, I reached to pluck a daisy from the lovely, flowered vase,
seeking truth in daisy petals; not the sparkle on his face.

"He loves me and he loves me not," I plucked the petals one by one;
anxiously, the petals fell until my childish game was done.

And when, at last, the final petal floated amidst my wilted thoughts,
I realized that my game had ended with the words, "He loves me not."

So, I laughed inside myself, "Oh - what a silly game to play!"
A petal could not reveal the truths his tongue had yet to say.

But then, as if this silly game could prove the matter settled,
I carefully threw away the daisy's last, conflicting petal.