Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Dried Flowers

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.)  

"Dried Flowers"

They hang from rafters
From hooks here and there
Left suspended

They are delicately preserved
Their memories and beauty
And Fragile

They were bound to die
Destined to end
But are now
Determined to endure
Despite depleted aromatics
diminished aesthetics
And dramatically decreased value

At any attempt to move them
They whisper their dismay
Shuddering their objections
Brittle and unyielding,
They maintain their stance

A collection of shriveled shells
Of former beauties
Breathtaking in their time
They still bring a tear to the eye

Same eye,
in a new year,
with a new tear

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