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 Tamara Beryl Latham - The Poet

Flowers of Time

An array of color:
Tennessee's bounty.

Living blooms of beauty once,
plucked in the heat of August;
tossed onto an attic shelf to age,
like the brittle wood
on which they were laid.

And finally collected,
amid the musky smell
that hangs like cobwebs
in a vacant house.

Trash to some,
gifts for others.

A crafter's delight,
strewn out
on an antique
rosewood table.

Enter the wind;
howling through an open window,
bellowing out with rage
her disapproval.

What lingers is the image:
crushed dried petals,
carpeting the hardwood floor.

A classic study of entropy,
in a muted spectrum of mauves.

The scene eternally remains
a frozen frame,
etched onto the hollow halls
of my mind.

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