When I bought my first bunch of flowers
From her little shop with the name above,
I was still so young and so light in years,
I had no names yet for the blooms I’d love.
And then I saw her some weeks ago,
Saw how her skull was showing in her face,
Knew what had been in her and growing slow,
Was speeding up to a murderous pace.
I wondered what her memorial might be,
Who had lived her life among leaf and scent,
Where once blossoms were crammed for all to see,
Was now two empty rooms and up for rent.
Until this week, her window full once more
With flowers left by others at her door.