The room of an angel

Fill the room with roses.
I read the last sense to leave
is smell.
They won't see red
or pink, colour will come
on the waft of small breaths,
those shallow breaths that rattle,
put us all on edge and play
with our memories.

Fill the room with carnations,
pink fuzzy bubbles of joy
that tickle the times
we laughed and loved.
Let pink crinkle the edge
of silence, let pink parade!

Fill the room with forget-me-nots
those tiny blue petals
be-lie the patience God carries
as he creates. There's barely scent
to cleanse the air, but the leaves
carry green and bring Eden
to the room of an angel.