These flowers are black (sestina)

She said goodbye to her Sweetie
and left him there amongst the flowers.
He looked like some kind of sacrifice
sitting there, offered to uncaring cold.
The day turned black,
inked on the calender by her hand,

the same frail hand
that clasped her son's, who whispered "It's alright, Sweetie,"
in his own daughter'ss ear, his other hand on her shoulder cloaked in black.
She found a tiny wild flower
and left it with him in the cold,
a beautiful, symbolic sacrifice.

We all learn to sacrifice
our wavering voices and our sweaty hands.
They're all we can muster when the cold
presses in uninvited, whispering "Sweetie,
come with me." These flowers
aren't for you! Go away, don't turn us all black.

It's too late for that, though, we are black
enough. We have sacrificed
color for solemn sad faces and funeral flowers.
I'm shaking, I try to keep my hands
still. "I'm sorry, Sweetie."
We're all sorry, do you have to sound so damn cold?

We can't help it, the cold
is all we have, along with layers of black.
I'll say it again... Sorry, Sweetie,
but that's the way it has to be. We've got to sacrifice
something, might as well be the warm parts of us, rip it from our hands.
The only pretty things left are the flowers.

Maybe we'll take home some of these flowers,
to scare the creeping cold
from our houses. My hand
wants to pick them up but my mind makes them black
so I can't touch them, their fragrant sacrifice.
They scream, "Stay away, Sweetie,

lest we drag you down by the hand on our cold
petals, Sweetie, we flowers
are blacker than we appear, and you just might end up our sacrifice.