The stone collector

He started collecting stones the day she died.
One for her love, one for her insincerities,
one for her humor, another for her unfulfilled dreams.
Smooth ones, rough ones, colored and dull...
On top of the stone mountain he planted
the tree of sorrows.
Its roots dug deep into the hardness and endured
through the winter of despair and the spring of rebirth.
The gentle rain battered its flowers of hope,
fragile little things with shimmering petals.
The summer sun ripened the bittersweet fruits of rememberance.
He tenderly picked them and gave them to all
so they might know his love, his life, his soul.

Cristina Sokarda's Questions:

Do the lines flow well together?
Is it predictable?
Does the last line make an impact?