A few weeks ago, I went to visit my super-crafty aunt. By super-crafty, I don't mean cunning and scheming, I mean she could make just about any inanimate object into something beautiful if you give her a hot glue gun and a few hours. She's impressive, especially when all her works are on display.
She was showing me some projects in her work room, and I remarked on the number of dried flowers around the room. I asked her where they all came from and if any of them had been special. She couldn't remember the stories behind most of them, and it struck me as a little sad.
And, of course, I wrote a poem about it. (I know, you were expecting an interpretive dance number, but I thought I'd mix it up.)
From hooks here and there
They are delicately preserved
Their memories and beauty
Despite depleted aromatics
And dramatically decreased value
At any attempt to move them
They whisper their dismay
Shuddering their objections
They maintain their stance
A collection of shriveled shells
Breathtaking in their time
They still bring a tear to the eye