Flower Season

Laura Van Vorst

Ever since that bouquet arrived, I’ve given myself permission.

I keep the vase filled until August turns to Christmas;
first your smiling daisy watches me remember.
Two weeks later, I choose freesias of every colour
the following week natives, strong and intricate.
I paint my house acacia yellow,
add new life as each bloom withers.

Not like those abandoned high in our kitchen
among traybakes and meringues
casserole dishes and Tupperware
books and bills pushed aside, kitchen table buried.
Week-old petals move from bench to floor
rotting scent among stale buns and dirty dishes
door opening and closing until finally
forgotten.

No, these flowers welcome me home
fluffy as meringues, but this time sweet-smelling and kind
open as a best friend’s arms.
A wide pink rose roars my grief, nudges me to let go
for there are other hands here to catch her falling petals.
One dried out carnation pressed between pages
gently whispers
that my dates are worth the recording.

Nine years in
I celebrate my engagement party on his birthday
not telling anyone what the date means.
Tenth anniversary
I start a new job, getting on with things.
I thought grief should be silent.
Deep roots, tiny buds.

Now it’s been twenty-one. I’ve trimmed myself tiny.
These flowers let me
cut and water and display my heart.

Laura Van Vorst grew up in Northern Ireland and now lives in Sydney, Australia, where she is a poet, songwriter and psychologist. She has previously been published in Sad Girl Diaries and Cothumos, and has five pieces selected for an upcoming anthology on grief from Quillkeepers Press. Her first full-length collection forthcoming later this year with Ginninderra Press. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram, Facebook and TikTok @Poems.by.Laura