The man whose name was not yet a flower

had heard the stories.

Every lost lover reduced to a corsage

left lonely on the dance floor,

the petals dried and pressed between 

pages of poetry by the man

with sun for a smile and song for a voice.

 

But the man whose name was not yet a flower

was not afraid to offer his open hand to

the man whose touch turned love to petals.

And when they overcame their fears and moved closer,

the embrace of the man with sunlight-stained hands

hardened the clay from which the other had been carved

rather than cracking it.

 

Oh, but the man who could read prophecies

cut into the fabric of the world,

who could see the distant future,

was farsighted, and thus

could not read the prophecy 

in front of him.

 

When the plane crashed,

cast down by a storm in the west,

there was no corsage or bouquet

floating on the sea foam.

 

But the man who knew the future

finally understood.

He, with shaking hands,

folded the last letter

from his love into a paper blossom,

and named it after

the man whose name became a flower.