Sitting on the porch each day
at exactly six o'clock.
Within his hands he always held
an old flowerpot.
In the pot he grew a flower
his wifes favorite kind.
He'd sit and hum
their favorite tune
as tears he would cry.
Then he'd watch the day turn night
behind the tall tall willow
but one night he placed the pot
in his wooden chair
and sat beneath the weeping branches
as if she were there.
The following morn
the man was gone
along with that old pot
but in the field where he had sat
was a sea of familiar flowers.
...All in bloom and free.

Krystle McGee

Saddening yet very beautiful dear.Godspeed!Cy

Neat write!!!

Awesome and beautiful!

Beautiful ((( Krystle ))))

Thanks You all

sounds like love to me