by B.W. Harold

Created on: February 08, 2010   Last Updated: May 19, 2012

He mounted her doorstep bouquet in hand.

She opened the door for him, thrilled to see his shining face.

Ah, young hearts flutter with a simple glance.

“I brought you flowers today, they tell a story,” he began.

She let him in curious about his tale.

“What a kind of story?” she asked.

“A love story,” he crooned.

Ah, young hearts flutter with a simple glance.

He laid the flowers on the table, the colors wildly scattered.

The rose he displayed, “this my dear is for the red of my blood or more for the rapid pace you give it.”

Ah, young hearts flutter with a simple glance.

The tulip followed, “a delicate pink for the flush you give when our lips meet.”

Ah, young hearts flutter with a simple glance.

A bundle of daisies cork screwed about “for days of daisy chains and our childhood dreams.”

Ah, young hearts flutter with a simple glance.

“But this my dear,” the young suitor chimed.

“This by far is my most significant find.”

The final bloom to find his grasp was a delicate chain of flowers.

Bleeding Hearts her mother would have guess.

Dangling like dew drops in spring, the tiny pink buds folded like it's name.

“This is for my heart, that I gladly give.”

Ah, young hearts flutter with a simple glance.

Tears flooded her love struck eyes.

How thoughtful he had been.

So sweet his surprise.

“Where did you find a florist who could gather such a wonderful bouquet?” she asked.

“A florist?” he echoed.

“I picked these from your mother's garden.”

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