Drying Flowers

A Poem on Memory

Drying Flowers

There is a moment after a petal is plucked
Where it holds its soft skin delicately 
If you crack them, crush them with force
And bring your fingers to your nose,
There’s still life left lingering 
Until from its veins
The velvet dries 
                           dies 
                                 and drips 
almost as if it had never been.

And the pollen inside 
Scatters across the page like startled birds, 
And it too disappears
And all that was—is
Dust held to a page by my tape, 
In an effort to
Keep the dead living.

Yet even when dead,
If you bring your fingers to the petals once more 
and pinch what was once a velvet living love,
You can still catch its scent 
Like it woke from a dream.

To assume petals won’t fall from a page is ingenuous,   
But if the book is left closed you can pretend 
They are still there 
Soft scented serendipitous 
And alive.


To read my poetry on delicacy click here.
To read my poetry on pain click here.