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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Flowers of Time
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