Flowers At My Door Poem by Theresa Dould Cummings

, Flowers at My Door

Sunday morning, my favorite of the week,
Sunday paper, read aloud, a gentle voice to hear.
I look upon my garden to see my flowers reaching
skyward. In my kitchen making coffee, I hear a muffled
sound. Glancing quickly, there I notice tattered leaves
and wilted buttercups surrounding proudly dancing
dandelions waiting at my door. I can't remember the last
bouquet that made me feel this way. Flowers for no
occasion but to say hello. A heartfelt gift of no great
worth than that my heart can sing again. I choose a
vase to match my gift that brings a smile to all who see
a mason jar, old and cracked and ivy green to boot.
I place my treasure upon my windowsill for my
bouquet to see the joy that fills my house with colors
wild from the neighboring field. No fancy florist, no
velvet ribbon to encase this wild expression of love.
But even a florist has a good day now and again.

Theresa Dould Cummings 06/07/008