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

Spectacular

Lifeless

Beautiful

They are delicately preserved

Their memories and beauty

Faded

Dulled

Lifeless

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