A Sprig of Dried Flowers

Last night, I found

a sprig of dried flowers

beneath my dresser,

and I confess

that I do not know

from whence it came.

There’s no dim memory

to be jarred,

no scent to rekindle

and old moment,

just dried flowers,

ever-drying more.

A shade between blue

and purple, like my feelings…

sad and mystified

by something so

beautiful.

They had fallen beneath,

but I saved them

from crushing while

beneath my feet.


© CGT, 2018.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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