Sep 16
Yellow Sweater's picture

Dry Flowers

I found a pamphlet of thick cream paper
on a dusty undershelf of the poetry aisle. 

Like dried out flowers,
the words used to be wet. 

I read each word twice, 
waiting for them to bloom.  
Dry flowers can be lovely, can’t they?  

They smelled nice: 
those words, 
that paper. 

It was all very beautiful. 
But the flowers were dry.