Continuation re: that recent bouquet of flowers I wrote a poem about - see previous post(s)

As I clear out these flowers, I met with a few feelings.

     The thoughts that have rested on this bouquet have meant a lot, from the worst lows to the most painful, loving hopes.

      I have avoided this, but the stems are gray with mold and only a few of the hardy leaves remain. These will be transferred to the smaller vase. (That vase already holds the heartier leaves from a different wonderful magenta bouquet from my grandmother around the same time, still alive and green.

      I fear the benchmark of time; I fear disappointment and the fear itself I will feel how I when another problem inevitably happens, with the absence of those flowers like a stamp of the passage time in a moment things are not perfect or quite possibly even close to good enough yet.

      Perhaps it is true that there is nothing to fear but fear itself, and there is no fear in love.

      It is time to be brave. With every well-preserved yellow flower head I clip off, I feel a little braver.

      I pluck off what looks like dead leaves, but they are a few petals still hanging on from my grandmother's bouquet. These along with what I just clipped and a couple other petals and leaves, will go in the drawer, too.

      Deep green leaves from this bouquet in the vase in the left. Youthful green leaves from the bouquet from my grandma on the right. 

      There is no fear in love, and these green leaves are beautiful.