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A Red State Mystic.

On Dried Flowers

On Dried Flowers

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The Swoop

On the hall table,
stems and all,
there were some dried flowers
gathering dust in that dusty bowl.
No one passing by would remark:
“My, what beautiful flowers!”
For these dusty white and dead flowers
were just accouterments to the rest of the room,
like salt to a roast – only less so.
Or a bow to a gift – only less so.
Hardly noticed, unless you noticed to pinch
a crunchy petal just to feel it
dissolve between your fingers
for the heck of it.
And you would, because you enjoy that sort of thing –
But you don't even notice them gathering dust.

I once saw a dried flower pressed between the pages
of a very old book. Its yellow, less vibrant
than that remembered blossom,
pressed there, yet forgotten
by lives that have since lived
(and kept there as a reminder).
Fragile, it fragments a little bit more
each time you open the dusty book;
Dissolving, therefore, every time you look at it directly.
This time, those crunchy bits land somewhere between
these fluid lines on the page:
Behold, he whom thou loveft is fick.
And Jefuf wept.

You shut the book and pass the dusty flowers in the dusty bowl.
And prophesy to the wind.
O Lord GOD, thou knoweft.
Perhaps it will.
Perhaps it will.
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