No Wrong Answer

I still sit here, watching day go to dusk

Observing my spent flowers

and wondering about my last one

anxiously I pick the pedals,

repeating the same two words

again and again and again.

I smile when I pull the last pedal.

Nervousness should grip me, but

there is no wrong answer when I'll ask.

I know she's thought about it,

I know she's thinking about it,

I know she wants me to think about it.

Any answer will give me relief, because

there is no wrong answer.