Andy (emperoraf) wrote,
Andy
emperoraf

On Dried Flowers



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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