A Handful of Wildflowers                                   

By Donald E. Allen

I saw you in the park one day, and lost my heart in your blue, blue eyes. 

I asked you to a dance, and when you said yes, I knew I’d love you … evermore.

I had no box of chocolates, no roses could I afford, but I had for you a handful of wildflowers, as I knocked upon your door.

Our courtship was mostly innocent, long talks, quiet moonlight strolls, shared dreams about tomorrow, and yet, dare I say at times, our courtship was spiked with lust.

We kept our romantic dining simple, some cheese and bread, some wine, oh, and wildflowers on the table were a must.

Your mom and three sisters sewed and sewed for months.  Never had there been a more beautiful dress, never had there been a more beautiful bride. 

You had no expensive brides bouquet, just a handful of wildflowers; a symbol of our love as we stood there in the presents of God, side by side.

Our babies all grew to call you Mother Dear.  Johnny, Eric, and Paulette; she has my eyes and her mothers sweet, wonderful smile.

Paulette made it so very clear how much she loved us both when she carried a bouquet of wildflowers on her wedding day, as I walked her down the aisle.

Johnny went to Princeton, Eric … died in the war.  We saved for years, and went to see that far away field where Eric left this earth. There in an endless rolling sea of green grass, a small patch of wildflowers grew.

We were drawn to them, across that hollowed ground, and when we reached those wildflowers we stood in silence and prayed.  Don’t ask how we were so sure this was the exact spot where Eric had died, Mother and I, just knew.

Now alone I climb the grassy knoll behind the church, as I have done so many times before. I’m much older now but I must go on; to your love I’m still a slave.

I’m out of breath while I seek your name among the silent stones.  Of course, I carry a handful of wildflowers, to place upon your grave.